Brand New Eyes
by d i n o b o t
Summary: With Kanto in shambles, a tormented Ash Ketchum leads a struggling rebellion against the resurrected Team Rocket. New attachments are formed, relationships are lost and enemies befriended as he must look through different eyes to save the region from doom and ultimately learn the difference between knowing the right path and doing it. Pokeshipping/Ikarishipping.
1. Please Be Careful

**The sequel to 'All We Know Is Falling.' You don't necessarily have to read the prequel. Just PM me and I'll give you the abridged version.**

**There will be at least two story lines, running simultaneously throughout the whole fic, one in the past, the other in the present, picking up about a year after 'All We Know' left off. The flashbacks are written in 'past-tense' and the other in 'present-tense.' They jump back and forth pretty frequently too, it's an experiential device to give a non-linear, choppy effect to the story. So, I apologize in advance if it messes with your brain.  
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**There isn't as much AAML as the last one, but it's still part of the story. Ikarishipping too.**

**For my sake, please read this in 3/4. It just looks better.**

* * *

><p><strong>Part I - Please Be Careful<br>**

A figure runs through a dark corridor, splashing the scattered shallow pools of water in every direction. Labored breathing stays in rhythm with his boots against the steel floor until he stops just before the hallway turns, then only the sound of his subdued exhales remain. With his back to the wall, he brings his silver USP match pistol against his chest, and slides down until one knee rests on the ground, his free hand remaining still upon the wall as he peers carefully out of the corner.

The adjoining hallway is just as dark with a few overhead lights blinking erratically above, but his sight never strays from the shadows. Another sound is heard, much like his own footsteps moments before, but these sound closer together, which means whomever is approaching is foolishly unaware of his presence. Curling his finger around the trigger, he flashes in view, weapon wielded and ready.

Not even a second passes and the intruder stops dead in his tracks, preceded by a single piercing bullet and a fountain of blood gushing from the red 'R' on his shirt. The man grasps the mortal wound with one hand, the other still against his holstered weapon. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, until he falls to the ground and lets out one last whimper as his blood mixes with the dirty puddles saturating his clothing and drifts off to sleep.

A startling voice whips him around, and two men standing at the end of the hallway point their semi-automatic weapons his way. Escaping their poor aim through a smooth set of back flips, he lands in a crouch and fires two succinct gunshots. Their heads jerk backward, the life drains from their bodies and they collapse in unison, dead.

Rising to his feet, his hand drops to the side and eyes a single strand of smoke from the nozzle crawl up his arm and dissipate into the air.

_"Ash!"_

His wristwatch surprises him at first, as evident by his sudden jerk, but he quickly recovers and slides up his sleeve before speaking into the small communicator.

"What is it?" he replies in a low irritated mumble.

_"How's it coming in there?"_ the voice asks before being cut off by the static.

"Great." His eyes shift behind, then aim to the fore. "I've been in here thirty minutes and I'm already lost. Whoever gave us the intelligence on their floor plans were completely wrong. Nothing's where it's suppose to be."

_"What did you expect? There aren't a lot of them left. How's your team?"_

"Gone." He unhinges the clip and it clanks against the floor. "I'm the only one left."

The voice sighs._ "This isn't going very well. OK, I'll check on the other team, you just stay focused and complete the objective."_

Unconvincingly and without feeling, he responds, "I'll do my best."

_"We're running out of time. Get to that laboratory."  
><em>

"Sure thing." He smirks apathetically and shoves another round into the gun's handle. The weapon makes a high two-syllable click as he pulls on the barrel to load it.

_"And remember, stick to the mission. Don't go off script like last time."_

"No promises."

More static. _"Damn it, Ash! If you put another mission in jeopardy because of her, I swear-" _the voice is cut off again, but it isn't because of the interference.

"Sorry, Brock." He looks down at his nickle plated pistol, the broken lighting reflecting its outline against his dark green eyes. "But that's one order I can't follow."

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

"Wake up."

He shifted under the blanket and slid his face away from her voice as she shook him playfully by the shoulder. She waited a few moments but got nothing more than an incoherent mumble - an obvious sign he was ignoring her. Another persistent shake spurned a second muffled groan as he dug further away, slapping the pillow across his face.

"Wake up!" She rolled her eyes and rose from his bed, causing the mattress to wave up and down. In one quick motion, she ripped the heavy checkered comforter off his body and threw it across the room. The sudden drop of temperature instantly caused his limp body to tense and he curled into a ball to conserve warmth. The light hurt his eyes when he first opened them, as she raked his drapes open to usher in the afternoon sun, and all the poor boy could do was groan a third time and turn the opposite way.

"What are you doing?" he grumbled, without preamble.

"What does it look like? Waking you up."

It was a painfully obvious statement. He sluggishly turned around to face her, sitting on the very edge of his bed with such an opposing cheerful look he frowned when he saw it. Using his elbows to prop up the upper half of his body, he sighed and looked at his Pokeball alarm clock on the night stand to the right. His concentration hung as his eyes scanned the four numbers and accompanying annotation, non-blinking and completely visible in solid red digital lettering.

"Look, Ash," she began, following his line of sight. "I know upstart trainers and future Pokemon Masters have a lot on their plate, but as far as sleeping in... two o' clock's pushin' it."

A second look at his novelty alarm reaffirmed her point. It was indeed two o' clock in the afternoon and he, before her rude awakening, was still snoozing in his room.

"Wow, thanks for the concern, _mom_."

His sarcasm only fed her annoying sunny disposition, and she giggled softly with a closed smile. Finally lifting off the bed, she headed out, halting just before exiting he doorway. "You'd better hurry or you'll miss lunch. I think there's still some left over from breakfast, but it won't be for long."

"We'll see about that."

"Wait."

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"Hold your Horseas, Romeo." Her smiled intensified then added, "You better put some clothes on first."

It was apparent as soon as he obeyed the command, because when he looked down he realized why she was so giddy. He was wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, pretty tight too. No wonder he was cold.

She laughed again, and somehow made the door slam the rousing end to her fun. But she could do that, as he was always the butt of her jokes.

"Dang it, Misty! Come back here!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

"Dawn! Dawn!"

She opens her eyes - the first one, then the other - both hands shielding her head as she cowers behind a thick wooden crate. A volley of bullets riddles off her cover, bouncing in every direction, and she screams again and retreats more into her hiding place.

"Come on, let's go!" Paul sneers. The purple haired agent peeks over his box - just a few yards away from her - and empties his clip against the enemy. The tactic proves useless however, as his poorly aimed shots miss their intended targets: three Rocket henchmen armed with semi-automatic weapons. They stand across the room and chisel their hiding places down with their superior fire power.

He reloads his gun. "Dawn! Stop it!"

"I can't help it!" she cries above the gunshots, head bowed low to the ground as humanly possible.

This time he concentrates on his aim, rather than firing haphazardly into the vicinity of the rockets. Three shots yields one fatal hit, and takes one rocket in the chest dead center. The man yelps and falls backward, spraying his weapon accidentally onto the rocket to his right. By the time the remaining henchmen gathers his senses, Paul vacates his spot, rushes him and claims his life with a single shot.

The agent spits to his side and walks back to his partner, still shivering against her cover.

He crouches in front of her. "We don't have time for this! We have to keep moving!"

"I can't do this," she sniffs, wiping her nose. "I'm not ready! I don't belong here!"

He picks up her disregarded weapon off the floor and places it in her hands. "I agree. This is the _last _place you should be, but we need to get to the lab."

"But-"

"Get it together!" he hisses, rising to his feet. "I'm not letting you screw this mission up! Let's go!"

His heated words springs some action from her and she jumps up to meet him, holding her firearm with both hands. She's still shaking, and her fresh tears aren't dried off her reddened cheeks yet, but it's enough for him. Without acknowledgment he presses on and takes point, while she defaults behind to guard the rear. The unlikely tandem take the left corridor.

She peers back nervously, thinking she heard approaching footsteps.

"Relax," Paul tones unsympathetically. "Brock's team disabled the alarm, their communications and he's got most of their forces occupied outside. They don't know we're here."

His words are true but hardly give her peace.

"Do you even know where you're going?" she asks after a few eerily quiet minutes.

"What are you getting at?"

She swallows. "Nothing. The blueprints we were given were wrong. We're not even using them anymore."

His eyes focus down the hallway, making sure his steps don't echo. The two inch their way through, careful not to arouse attention. The steel hallway seems to run forever, with a medium size door spaced every few dozen yards. The two agents keep vigilant every step of the way, eyes never astray from their objective. In mere seconds, a squadron of rockets can pour out of any junction at any moment and end this mission.

No one is more aware of this than Paul. "I've learned to trust my instincts."

"Are they ever wrong?" She flinches at a stray sound and quickens her pace, almost bumping into him.

"Not often. See?" The agent crouches before the hallway breaks. He gestures to Dawn, who reluctantly takes a peek into the larger room where the hallway will eventually end. Four rockets stand guard, each with a MP5 9mm sub-machine gun. Behind them is a large metal archway, magnetically sealed with a swipe-card key lock to the right.

She retracts and glues herself to the wall. "Is that the lab?" When she doesn't get a response she adds, "What do we do?"

Paul nods and cocks his gun. "We go in hard."

"What?"

Her reaction is too loud for his liking, and he quickly covers her mouth with his hand. They sit there a moment, making sure their cover isn't blown. Slowly, Paul slides his gloved hand off her lips and scowls. "Quiet. We have the element of surprise. As long as you have good aim, we shouldn't have a problem."

"But I-"

"Just remember you're training."

"Paul-"

"Stop it!" he cut sharply, but after regaining composure, and reminding himself who he's talking to, his voice softens. "Don't worry. Look... I'll go first."

"Please be careful." She isn't quite sure if he hears him - the warning is more for her anyway, because her breathing refuses to normalize and her gun still shakes in her grip no matter how hard she tries to regain control. Patiently, she holds her breath and waits for the signal.

He unhooks a silver canister from his belt, removes the pin and tosses it past the corner. Dawn covers her ears in anticipation, expecting the worst, but nothing is heard. Then, a large beam of white light flashes out from the other room and shoots past them, followed by a series of groans from the rockets. She winces and blocks the light with her forearm.

"Now!"

Pure reaction overpower thought as she follows her partner into the room, rushing the disoriented rockets still blinded by Paul's well timed flash bang grenade. Her bullets hit one Rocket in the shoulder, spinning him to the ground, and another square in his chest, throwing him against the wall. The Rocket grips his wound and slides to the floor with a trail of dark red blood staining the wall. Paul's shots are just as on target, hitting one in the stomach and chest. The remaining grunt he reserves for himself, taking him out in a brutal punch combo directly to the chest, followed by one final right hook, rendering him unconscious.

"Not bad. For a rook," he says, searching one Rocket for the key card.

Dawn stands in horror, half in shock because of what took place in just a few seconds, the other from the left over adrenaline racing through her veins.

"T-thanks."

After searching the third rocket, he fishes the key card from his pocket and swipes it through the lock. The light from the pad turns from a neon red to a light green, chimes a low 'beep,' and unlocks the previously sealed doors. They slowly slide apart and the two agents slip inside.

"What now?" Dawn asks, surveying the laboratory. Several benches crowd the walls - on them are some computers connecting to different servers and redundancy backup stations. A table is at center, with a few notes and pencils scattered on it. She walks over to a stainless steel machine with dozens of lighted buttons and knocks the metal cover with her knuckle.

"Wow, what do you think this is used for?"

"Does it matter? Come on, we need to find their database."

"Right," she nods and sits on one of the chairs, scooting it towards one of the computer stations. Her slender fingers rap on the keys, stopping only to move the mouse. After a few seconds of browsing, a 'log-in' box prompts on the monitor.

Paul leans over her shoulder, placing a hand on top of the screen. "Can you break in?"

"Me? No," she smiles and pulls a thin CD-ROM case from the inside of her black jumpsuit, "but this can." The optical drive bay slides open and she sets it inside. Moments later and another screen pops up, full of binary and hexadecimal code.

"This is Max's latest code breaking software. He's been designing it for weeks."

He grunts unimpressed. "Is it working?"

"We'll find out in a bit," she answers, eyes following the segmented 0s and 1s.

They both stare into the screen, letting the code-breaker command line interface do its thing. Thirty seconds pass and the firewall is easily bypassed, allowing them complete access.

"Bingo," she smiles and connects her flash drive into one of the USB ports. "Copying data now. There's quite a bit of data here, give it a few minutes."

"We don't have a few minutes!" Paul blares impatiently. He whips his head back to make sure the coast is still clear. "We're already behind schedule."

"There's nothing we can do. It's working as fast as it-"

Her voice is cut short by a loud gunshot and the bullet slicing the thin gap between their faces. Both agents instinctively duck for cover. Paul overturns the table in the middle of the lab and fires a few shots through the still open arch-shaped door. For the first time that day, Dawn isn't concerned about her life, as she checks the computer. Fortunately, it's unharmed, the download is still in progress, the timer on the screen signaling 55 seconds left. She growls, then rolls out of the way of a bullet that would have claimed her life.

_45 seconds remaining._

Paul's gun makes an empty click and he sinks lower, back against the table, searching for another clip. He jerks to the right when a flood of bullets is fired into the laboratory.

"Dawn! I'm out!"

She complies and tosses her last round to him. He snatches it in mid-air and loads his gun before sending a few shots the Rocket's way.

_30 seconds remaining._

She senses the fear course through her body again, so much that she tastes it on her dry lips and feels the pressure building in her chest. She tries to move from her spot, but the fear is far too great, rendering her paralyzed.

"How's that download coming?" He turns back. "Dawn! Dawn!"

_15 seconds remaining._

She doesn't answer him - she can't. Not when her life hangs in the balance, trapped in a god forsaken hideout of organized thugs. "I-I can't! I can't!"

Four gunshots end the rest of the Rocket's on the other side, and the sound of emptiness is so foreign they look at each other in confusion and pop their head over their worn down covers. A man with lightly bronzed skin wearing a jet black ensemble stands in the threshold of the lab. He holsters his weapon and lets his forearms rest against the half drawn doors.

"You two alright?"

"Ketchum?"

"Ash! Where have you been?"

"Lost." He steps over a piece of table and helps her up. "How are you two doing?"

"Great," Paul answers for her, flipping his head her way. "Can't believe they stuck me with _this _rook."

"I'm trying my best," she whispers weakly, eyes dropping to the floor. It isn't a reply to Paul's belittling remark as it is encouragement for her, but he does hear her pitiful attempt to explain her behavior, and he kicks the already broken table in frustration.

"Hey, you're doing fine," Ash assures her, with a hand on her shoulder just to let her know he means it. "This is a really high profile mission. It would make any agent nervous. Don't worry about it."

It's too late for that, but nevertheless, she nods and checks the computer again.

_Download Complete._

A smile of relief breaks across her face and she swipes the flash drive from the computer... objective complete.

"Perfect... now we have to find a way to get the hell out of here," Paul grumbles pessimistically, shattering the new found optimism. He wields his Mark XIX Desert Eagle from his holster and takes the lead as the other two agents follow suit, with Dawn in the middle and Ash manning the rear.

"What's in that data that's so important anyways?"

"Most likely, plans for their next covert operations," Paul stops, halfway facing her. "But hopefully, the location to their secret headquarters. We find that, and we end this war once and for-"

"Incoming!"

Before he can finish his sentence, Ash grabs Dawn and pushes her back into the lab. Paul turns just as a squad of Rockets pours through the corridor they are headed. His eyes finally focus on the reason for Ash's warning, as he just misses the lead Rocket throw a metal spherical object in their direction.

"Paul! Hit the deck!"

He readily obeys and as soon as he's out of the way, Ash wields his gun in a spit second and shoots the grenade dead center just as it leaves the Rocket's hand. The massive explosion throws the agents back into the steel wall, followed by debris of warm human flesh and twisting tendrils of fire. The squadron of Rockets lie in ruins, and the lucky few who are left intact remain face down on the ground.

But the fallen Ash Ketchum refuses defeat and plants his feet on the floor, using the wall against his back to slide upright. As soon as he regains his footing he staggers toward the grunts left alive. One Rocket jumps to his feet to engage him. He throws a wild three punch combo at him but does not land a single blow. Ash bobs and weaves before uppercutting him square in the jaw. Before the henchmen flies back from the force, he catches him by the collar, knees him in the gut and sends him away with a devastating round house kick to the temple.

The remaining Rocket meets Ash in the center of the room, unsheathes a small knife from his boot and lunges for the agent's stomach. He easily dodges the attempt and catches him by the forearm and neck. One quick snap of his wrist causes the Rocket to drop the knife, and is forced to meet the enraged agent in his cold eyes.

"Where is she?"

The Rocket manages a cocky smile, earning him a vicious blow to the face and a trickle of blood down his broken nose.

He shakes him again. "Damn it, tell me! Where is she?" he screams and slams him to the floor, holding him tightly by the collar. The man dangles in his grasp, completely at the will of his ferocity, but his broken smile still lingers through his battered countenance.

"You fool," he chokes out. "Did you really think she'd be here?"

His patience ends with another strike to the jaw. The man grunts and falls to the floor, reeling in pain. Ash stands over the Rocket, face a mantle of hatred, eyes swollen with anger - and what few tears he cannot hold back, bravely escape down his cheeks and outlines his profile before falling freely on his clothes. Shaking off the Rocket's blood burning his knuckles he wraps his fingers around his neck and squeezes.

"I'll kill you," he whispers face to face.

"Look at you," the Rocket coughs weakly as his grip intensifies. "You can't even help yourself... how can you help her?"

"Tell me where she is. Now."

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

He dressed faster than normal - not that Ash was usually meticulous about his morning ritual by any means, but he did make it a point to throw on his clothes in no particular scheme. He slid on his jeans, socks, shirt and adorned his usual custom fit Pokemon League hat. It didn't matter if he never changed his 'you-know-whats' as his mother affectionately called them, or that his shirt was inside out, all he cared about was getting to the table before Misty, to which he was already at a thirty second disadvantage.

Common sense notwithstanding, he flew down the flight of stairs connecting the second story to the living room, skipping every other step along the way. A sharp turn and he entered the kitchen and grounded to a halt in the doorway. A tantalizing array of aromas smacked him right in the face - so much so that he momentary lost the ability to stand. Freshly squeezed orange juice, hot sizzling bacon and eggs, flaky golden brown toast and Mom's famous blueberry pancakes with maple syrup - he recognized them a mile away.

Lifting his eyes however, proved to be a severe disappointment. The sweet citrus odor he smelled was reduced to an empty pitcher and a half empty glass. The pop of bacon and eggs were replaced with few scraps of fat, as were the leftover crusts from the toast - a blatant sign of _her _handy work. And the last of the mouth watering pancakes he remembered were at that very moment, being mashed between her teeth. Sticky syrup lips and a few loose blueberries were the only pieces of evidence left to confirm there _was _an actual meal here.

She swallowed. "Mornin', sunshine."

"Gosh, Misty!" he cried. "You ate _all _the food!"

"So?" she shrugged.

There were so many things he wanted to emote that nothing actually came out, just a bunch of sputtering sentences without words. Head hanging in defeat, he slid to the table and took the seat opposite of hers. Tiny particles of blackened toast lay on the table, and he flicked them away with a sigh, but in his trance, he came to a realization.

"Misty?"

"Mmhm?" She polished off the rest of her orange juice and slammed it on the table with a satisfied moan.

"What are you doing here?"

She covered her mouth in a half laugh. "Well, nice to see you too."

"Seriously. Why are you here?"

"Misty always visits, Ash." Delia answered for her. She walked to the kitchen table, stacked all the plates together and carried them to the sink.

"Always?"

"Well, no," she amended. "I'd say... once a week?"

Misty gave her a nod. "Sounds 'bout right."

"It's been great having her here, hon. She helps me with different errands and chores around the house. I tell you, she's a life saver." She turned on the hot water and ran the plates under the faucet.

"Misty? Really?"

The red head gave him a quick wink and shielded her mouth just in case the chatter from the the dishes wasn't sufficient enough to nullify her words. "What's the matter, Ash? You look like a Majikarp out of water."

He copied her motion and leaned over the table. "Just never pegged you as the 'helping type,' that's all. It's not like you were ever the 'Nurse Joy' of the group."

"Glad I wasn't," she scoffed. "But things change, Ketchum. You think being a Gym Leader is limited to just battling?"

"Well..."

"Right," she flopped back on her chair. "Look who I'm talking to."

He smirked - now that was the Misty he remembered. He flicked a forgotten piece of toast her way before she could dodge it. Misty laughed and bombed him with a wadded napkin, to which he countered with a poorly thrown blueberry. Fifteen year old's usually don't get sucked into a juvenile breakfast skirmish, but it was tolerated, as long as they made sure their actions were covert enough from the only adult in the room.

"Ew, Ash! That napkin still had food in it!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

Paul groans, slamming his hands over his ringing ears. He lurches on the floor and coughs violently, gripping his chest. A small alert beeps from his wrist watch, signaling an incoming transmission, but he cannot conjure up the strength to answer. Rolling to his stomach, he finally slams his palm over the watch and blares into the speaker with eyes closed.

"What?"

_"Paul! It's Brock. Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the last-"_

"Busy," he sputters.

_"Report! Now!"_

He coughs into the floor and wipes some blood running down from the corner of his mouth. "We have the data, but we're pretty messed up over here... we need backup."

_"Ash should be there any minute, once he is, get out as fast as-"_

"He's already here!" he shouts, rolling on his back

_"He is? Why haven't you left yet? We can't last much longer out here!"_

"I'm on it." He focuses his vision and turns on his side, lifting his head up as much as he can. "Ash! We have to get out of here! Now!"

"No!" Ash barks, still holding the Rocket by his collar. "Not until he tells me!"

The lavender haired agent climbs to his knees and spits blood to his right. The fogginess begins to lift, and he hears some footsteps looming down the corridor they used to enter the lab. Shadows appear, and the footsteps begin to multiply with increasing volume. He unlatches a small silver disc from his belt and balances it neatly in his palm. With all of his might, he tosses the metal disc across the room, it slides in the archway of the corridor right before it branches into their room. The tiny disc makes a high pitched buzzing sound and emits a yellow tinted force field blocking the entryway just as the Rocket squadron reach it.

"Let's go, Ketchum. We're running out of time!"

But he isn't listening. The agent slams the weakened henchmen on the floor again and strikes him across his face.

"Son of a bitch!" Paul sneers and manages to pull himself to the lab doors. "Dawn! Dawn!"

She whimpers against the wall, curling her arms around her legs. Navy bangs fall against her sweaty forehead and she slowly lifts her tear mangled eyes.

"Come on! We have to go!"

"What about Ash?" she whispers.

"He's preoccupied. Do you have the data?"

She brings the flash drive from her chest and hands it to him, and after regaining her footing, follows Paul into the larger room. Bullets hit the force field like hail from a storm, causing the thin tint to ripple with every contact. The Rockets continue to barrage the force field, slowly weakening it until it finally it shatters.

No time left.

Dawn retreats back into the lab, and Paul dives forward before a bullet splits his skull. Enough is enough. He runs to Ash and wrestles the unconscious man from his hands and grabs hold of him by his shoulders.

"Move it, agent!"

"No!" He breaks his hold and pushes him away.

"Think, moron or you're dead. We _all _are!" It was enough to gather some remnant of common sense. Through the shattering gunfire and Paul's commandeering orders, Dawn's high scream echos throughout the room, causing both agents to turn her way. In that moment he realizes he failed. He let his emotions consume him, the mission, and because of his actions there's a thin chance of them making it out alive. Peering back at Dawn, then to Paul, he comes to a horrible realization: it's too late to save them both.

"Take it," Paul slams the flash drive to his chest. "I'll go back for Dawn!"

"No! I can do it! I can save her!"

"The hell you can! Look, the data on that drive is the reason why we're here! If you don't get that out, all this is for _nothing_!"

He nods. "Fine. I'll cover you."

Without a parting word, both agents wield their weapons and head their separate ways. Ash backs away with cover fire as Paul shoots into the crowd of Rocket's pouring through the hallway as he fights his way to the lab. He flips and somersaults pass the gunfire and dives through the doors, peeking briefly to gain some time his way.

"Let's go, rook!" he blares out, extending his hand.

She takes it without question, but as soon as their hands touch a single bullet grazes Paul in the shoulder. The agent grunts and spins to the floor, holding onto his right arm.

"Paul!" she screams, immediately at his side. "Are you alright?" But all concerns liquefy into fear as a single click draws their attention and they find themselves looking into a barrel of a black Spectre M4 sub-machine gun. Instinctively, the wounded agent shoves his silver Desert Eagle forward in response. Three more Rockets peel from the now completely open doors and aim their guns at them.

The lead Rocket raises his gun so the laser sight lands directly on Paul's forehead, his mouth curling upward in a mixture of anger and pleasure. "Do it. I dare you."

He wouldn't think twice about sending these punks to the grave, even though there's a slim chance of making it out alive. The surge for vengeance makes his blood boil. Murderers deserve justice and justice requires sacrifice. He fights every fiber in his being begging him to pull the trigger, but when he sees Dawn shivering out of the corner of his eye he reluctantly loosens his grip on the handle, and it hangs on his finger before one of the men snatch it away.

The lead Rocket grins darkly and motions to the other two.

"Take them away."

* * *

><p>He runs with everything he has, away from the men screaming from the hot lead piercing through their bodies, away from the bullet' echoes cascading down the hallway, growing louder with each step he takes. But he must keep going, he must reach the end. He kicks open the door to the outside and slips under the cloak of night, a few dewdrops wet his face and damp his agent clothing.<p>

It's not any better here than it is inside. A white light explodes a few yards to his right, shaking the entire compound. His gun is ready, and aims toward the figures dressed in back. They're everywhere - to his left, to his right, on the roof barely discernible from the large spotlight, but he takes them out easily, along with two Rocket's guarding the opening of the barbwire fencing surrounding the base. As soon as he crosses the perimeter, a familiar voice rings in his ears through the machine guns following his every movement.

"It's Ash! He's back! Let's go!" The man motions the others to follow, and they retreat either by foot or by vehicle.

He catches up to him and the two run side by side.

"Did you get it?" the spiky haired man asks.

"Yes, Brock! We did," Ash huffs angrily.

"Where's Dawn and Paul?"

He doesn't say a word, all he can do is shake his head and run as fast as he can. Taking one last look at the Rocket base of operations, surrounded by barb wire fencing and lights, he unhooks a ball from the left side of his belt and flings it in the air.

A Charizard materializes in thin air with a heavy roar and swoops down low enough so they can jump on. As soon as they are secured, Ash signals his Pokemon to fly higher and it bursts through the cloud formations in the sky. The cold wind slices through their hair, the pale moonlight ignites their outline in the night, and the rain pummels their bodies, almost begging them to stay. But he doesn't. He doesn't look back.

Not once.

* * *

><p>The cork pops in the hair, with the accompanying sound and bounces to the ground somewhere, forgotten. He holds the green tinted bottle by its elongated neck with one hand and a small glass in the other. The wine is dark, pungent, and it ripples when he pours it, filling the glass half way.<p>

"This is a very special bottle of wine," Brock starts with a heavy sigh - everyone in the small cavern can hear it. "Merlot... '22. A very good year. Lance was saving it for a special occasion, the end of the war even." He pans the audience all around him. "But, he won't be here to drink it. Not anymore."

A bout of sobs permeates through the crowd, some even fall to their knees and weep bitterly. But one refuses to abandon his cold surface. All he does it lean against the far wall, half covered by the shoulders in front of him, emotionless, stern and distant.

Brock continues. "Lance was the Dragon Master. He was our leader, and more importantly, he was our friend. I'll miss him very much." He sips the glass and adds, "I drink this glass in his honor. His memory will live on. His death will not be in vain."

The rock trainer pulls the empty glass from his lips and hands the bottle to the next person who mimics his movements. After he passes the bottle, Brock pulls a small necklace from his pocket. It's thin and black, with a single dragon fang looped around it. He places it on a small rock on the floor. The rock accompanies three others, with other small relics on them. Lance's is the last one, the last of four.

He picks himself off the ground, dusts off his pants and looks just quick enough to catch Ash leave the mouth of the cavern and down the long rocky hallway. With a half mumbled apology, bumps some people out of the way and tries to follow. The cave's ceiling lines with small florescent lights, strung together by black wires, and Brock can barely make his shape walking farther and farther away.

"Ash!"

He stops, doesn't turn, and waits for him to catchup.

"Where are you going?"

He starts walking again. "To see Max."

"What? We just gave him the drive. It'll take him a few hours to go through all the encrypted data."

"And I want to be there when he does."

"Ash," he reaches for his shoulder. "Stop."

His hand is crudely shaken off and he continues down the dimmed hallway.

"I need to talk to you!"

"I know what you're going to say, Brock!" he growls.

"You do?"

"Sure." A quick turn, and they find themselves face to face. "You're angry. You're disappointed. The mission failed and it's all my fault. More than half the team was killed, Paul and Dawn are captured, and because I didn't follow orders Lance is dead! He's dead! I know!"

"But-"

"Am I leaving anything out?"

Brock takes a few steps back, about to wring him out. But one long look of Ash Ketchum changes his mind. Ash is older, the boy he knew from his childhood has all but disappeared. Ash is taller than he is, by a good few inches too. But all those changes don't bother him. It's how his eyes look when he stares so coldly back at him, or how the two can never carry on a meaningful conversation without escalating into an argument. The spiky haired agent takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to meet him.

"That's not what I was going to talk to you about."

"You weren't?" Ash asks skeptically.

"No," he sighs. "Things have gotten so bad, even a mission as screwed up as that one was consolation enough for me. And Lance went down fighting, he wouldn't want it any other way."

"Then what?"

"Ash. I think you should be Lance's successor."

"Me? You're crazy." He shakes his head and continues on his way.

"Since the Elite Four are all gone now, that leaves you."

"Forget it. Not happening. You do it."

"Come on, we all know I'm not the leader type," he pleads, trailing behind him.

He accelerates his steps, turning a corner. "Sure you are. You give out orders all the time. You organized the last counter-attack, and if I'm not mistaken that was you on the other end of my microphone bossing me around."

"That's not what I mean. Being a commander requires more than just barking out orders. It's about courage, bravery, instincts, leadership..."

He waves his hand dismissively, shushing him.

The spiky haired trainer slows to a halt, pauses reluctantly and calls again. "Ash, I know it's been a rough year-"

"Don't!" He stops dead in his tracks, extending his hand like a bridge then adds a softer, "Don't. Just... don't."

"I still believe in you, Ash. You're still a Master, a Champion. People just don't forget that."

He remains silent, soaking in all of Brock's words and what they represent. Yes, he is a Pokemon Master and Kanto's Champion, but it seems like decades ago, with little remembrance of its meaning. He's not a poster boy, the League's token Champion or a celebrity basking in the lime light. Fancy titles and likability polls are of little value here, in the midst of war, especially on the losing side.

"I forgot," he whispers stubbornly and halts just before the hallway breaks off into a smaller cave. "Max!"

"Just think about it-"

"Max!" he continues, completely ignoring him. "Where are you?"

"Here." A short teenage boy pokes his head up from behind a flat screen monitor and pushes his glasses back up his nose. "What's the problem, gentlemen?"

"The problem is," Ash slams his hands down on his desk. The resulting bang moves some office utensils, rolls a pencil off the table and pops a small plastic bust of Norman in the air. "Those blue prints you gave us were wrong. Because of you we almost didn't make it there alive."

Max tuts quietly. He types steadily on the keyboard and keeps his eyes on the screen. "That's not the way I heard it. Sure, the floor plans were wrong. They're the designs to _some_ Rocket installation in the region, I just don't know where. But I hear _you_," he pauses to look up "Ash, were the real problem out there."

Brock bars his arm across his body to stop him from lunging.

"Enough. I know we haven't given you a lot of time, but we want an update on the data we stole."

"Are you done?" Ash asks as patiently as he can.

"For some time now." His thin straw chokes the remaining soda out of his can and he taps the keys. "I decrypted it in less than an hour. What would you like to know?"

"Well-"

"What's their next target?" Ash interrupts, bumping him a little.

"Looks like a small munitions deposit in Lavender Town. Cakewalk job. Very little security."

Brock adjusts his collar and clears his throat to regain the floor. "What about their secret headquarters? Did you find the location?"

"Sure did," Max smiles, clicking the file. "Looks like an old, small abandoned outpost on the outskirts of Pallet Town. Pretty smart. No one would've guessed that."

"Pallet? That's not too far from here. If we mobilize now-"

"No. We should stop the munitions job first."

"Ash, our numbers are pretty thin as they are. We have a chance to end this. We know where their secret headquarters are. Chop off the head and the Ekans will die."

He matches his level. "No. We're going to Lavender... because I'm accepting your offer."

"What?"

"You said it yourself, I'm the best fit to be Lance's successor, so I'm accepting your offer. I'm tired of hiding in Mt. Moon! I'm tired of burying all my friends! I say we're going to Lavender."

"Him?" Max groans, palming his face. "You're making him leader?"

"I can do this. I can lead this team."

"A real leader weighs decisions logically. Why would we waste manpower on a small job in Lavender when we can focus on their secret headquarters. Answer me that."

"She'll be there," he shoots back. "I know she will."

"How do you know?" Max taunts, rolling his eyes.

He's about to reply more forcefully, but after stricken by a pause, he drops his hands, exhales for control and starts again. "I just do."

"Ash, I want Misty back just like you but we need to be smart about this."

"Brock." The boy's voice wavers, eyes red almost on the brink of tears. "Please... I need you to trust me. I have to find her. I have to get her back."

The heavy sigh from Brock signals defeat, but as he faces Ash again, somehow he looks different. He can see the zeal coursing through his veins. His face is still barely readable, cold, but now there's an aura of determination to him. Purpose reappears behind his eyes, a look he hasn't seen in nine months, before the unthinkable happened. Those brave qualities have been buried under months of fighting and death, but now - even if its only for a brief moment - they're starting to show again.

"Fine. If you want us to go to Lavender, that's just what we'll do," he nods obediently, with Ash's silence as token.

After a stiff pause, he turns and exits from Max's small lab. The cave is narrow, and the staggered lights only illuminate him briefly, but Max and Brock continue watching him - head down, hands deep in his pockets, growing smaller and smaller as he walks away.

"He can't do it, he can't lead us, Brock. He's gonna get us all killed."

"Give him a chance, he's been through a lot, we all have. He's still the best we have."

"You better know what you're doing, Brock."

"I know," he nods.

"He hasn't been the same since it happened."

"I know that too."

"I don't get it!" Max blurts out suddenly, peering to the distant Ash fading in the background. "What does Misty have that nobody else has? What makes her so damn _special?_"

"For Ash?" The dark figure finally vanishes from sight, and its only then does Brock give him an answer. "More than you know, Max. More than you know."

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

He was surprised that she was still here, and then he realized he shouldn't be. By the type of bizarre day he was having, she would _have _to be involved. From the very minute he woke up she made things a living hell for him. First, it was the rude awakening, then is was the fact she practically scarfed down a meal made for four. Now, it was Pikachu's purr as she rubbed his back and scratched him gently behind his ears. She giggled and hugged the electric Pokemon closer, spurring another satisfied "Cha."

He pouted. Only he could produce a response like that from Pikachu. "Give him back. It's my turn."

"Sorry, Ash," Misty laughed. "Looks like Pikachu likes me more than he likes you."

"You're insane. I'm still your buddy, right Pikachu?"

The Pokemon in question merely smiled, nuzzled in Misty's arms and cooed his name gently.

He grumbled. "Traitor."

His response only made the situation worse, and he slouched on the couch and crossed his feet stubbornly.

"Ash, dear, I forgot to tell you Professor Oak called," Delia called from the other room.

"What did he want?"

"I don't know. It sounded important, though. I think there was a mishap at the lab."

"Sounds like fun," Misty rocketed to her feet. Instantly, Pikachu ran up her back and perched on her shoulder with an energetic, "Chu!"

"You comin'?" she asked.

He groaned lazily and sunk further in his seat.

"Come on... an adventure at the lab is a million times more fun than lounging around the house."

The electric mouse added a cheery "Pikachu," and Misty extended her hand for him to take. He did, and as soon as they let Mrs. Ketchum know where they were going, they were out the door and down the paved streets of Pallet. Around two blocks in did Ash decide to break the silence, as they passed the neatly lined mailboxes and perfectly manicured lawns of the neighbors.

"You know something, Misty?" he began, stealing a peek of her.

"What's that?"

"I gotta admit, I wasn't particularly glad you were here. You were buggin' me the entire day."

She knocked him on the shoulder.

"But now I'm glad you're here. I mean, you always know what to say to help me. Even though you bug me to no end, I'm still glad you're here."

"It's my job." He wasn't quite sure if her words were sincere of not, but when she hooked her arm around his neck and smiled, he lost all doubt. She did care about him.

"Face it, kiddo. You'd be hopeless without me."

"Would not," he playfully fought back.

"Would too."

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

They raced to Professor Oak's lab, laughing the whole way there. She had the loveliest laugh, he thought. He never quite noticed it before. It sounded smart - a kid-like giggle, high pitched and abrupt, but still nice to hear. He liked it, and he liked the fact it was making his day so much more enjoyable. It was the small things like that: her laugh, voice, the way she played with her food - little mannerisms specifically to her that seemed to make the most profound impression on him.

Maybe that was the reason why she was his best friend, and why he told her he appreciated her visits, and why he was currently chasing her up Professor Oak's stone steps, with Pikachu zigzagging through their legs, all the way up to the door. Only for a moment did his euphoria become stifled, when the thought of losing her oddly popped into his head, but dismissed it just as swiftly. Because never could he visualize a world without Misty, and dared not to venture a reason why she'd be gone. Things would always stay this way.

Always.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: Updates will be less than sporadic.<strong>_  
><em>


	2. Thinkers and Doers

**I know, I'm the worst at updating. I promise to see this project till completion. It's about to get really good. The two story lines will continue to jump back and forth, so be aware of that. Non-linear stuff just makes me happy inside. Onward!  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part II - Thinkers and Doers<strong>

He's getting a headache and it won't go away. The telephone poles blur pass him exactly every second, and even though the distant mesmerizing countryside continues to fuel his stupor, he does not turn away from the fleeting scenery. It's been hours, or at least that's what it feels like from his prospective.

"Ash."

A wide green field stretches the entire horizon. The meadow fills with bending blades of grass and low swaying trees. Clouds blanket the sky—gray ones—the kind thick enough to block out sunlight to the land below. The sun, however, does every so often peek behind a small break in the formations and refracts against the glass window, causing a perfect flash of glare just sharp enough to pull him out of his own mind.

"Ash!"

"Hmm?" He rubs his eyes until his concentration resurfaces. "Did you say something?"

Brock sighs. "Never mind. I was just asking about your plan."

He leans back into his cushioned chair. "Plan? What plan?"

"Exactly. We need to know what we're doing if we're gonna thwart another one of Team Rocket's operations."

"Oh, that," he waves dismissively, half expecting so much more, slumping further in his chair. "Working on it."

"Well, make it fast. The reason why we took the Magnet Train was to get to Lavender Town in time. According to the data we stole, the job is scheduled for tonight at 11:00pm." He leans on the table and stares at Ash, whose eyes are still glued to the window, listening to the smooth hum of the high speed train sliding across the metal track beneath.

"I'll figure it out."

Excuses don't appease Brock, not one bit. He knows him too well to be silenced by a lame reply like that. Ash is never one to plan ahead, even if the situation calls for it. He's the jump without looking type, relying purely on instincts rather than reason or empirical data. Any other friend would scold the newest leader of the rebellion right then and there, but Brock knows how to handle him. It's hard for him to be too annoyed though, for Ash's instincts are surprisingly on mark, and on the rare occasion his intuition fails he always seems to miraculously construct a way out.

"I don't like the train," the agent whispers lightly, completely off topic, just high enough to catch Brock's attention.

"Why not?"

Ash's eyes lift to his, surprised he heard his automated response, and he pushes himself up to elaborate. "Too restricted. Too confined. We're sitting Psyducks here if there's an ambush."

"Relax; we made sure our departure went undetected."

"Still don't like it."

"Anyway," he draws out the word, "have you made contact with our east coast operations team yet?"

He nods. "Yeah, I sent them an encoded message before we left. They'll be at the coordinates when we arrive."

"And how many agents do we have with us?"

"Well, there's me, you and a few others."

"Where are they?"

"In the next cart over," he points behind his shoulder. "Didn't want to be disturbed."

"Newbies?"

"A few. Agents are agents." His hand makes a fist and cradles it right under his chin. "They'll do their job."

"I think we should have brought more help with us."

"There were none left."

"None?"

"We're stretched pretty thin. Most of our people are either out on assignment or dead."

Brock leans forward again, elbows on the table, folding his hands together. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"About what?"

"This is big. Not just this mission but the next few weeks. The data we stole finally gives us our edge. We can't let this opportunity slip."

"I know."

"I was thinking—maybe we need another man on the job."

"I guess we could call Tracey and have him meet us-"

"No, no," he shakes his head. "Not an agent. I was thinking someone outside of us. A consultant."

"A consultant?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"A person with a fresh prospective. Someone who knows our opponent inside and out."

He frowns and peers back to the window, to the passing trees, the dimmed landscape and half of his reflection staring back at him. "Who knows Team Rocket better than I do?"

_"Next stop: Saffron City."_

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

Professor Oak's laboratory was a landmark. Forget the fact it was the largest building in Pallet, situated on the tallest hill, overlooking the entire town, but it was a place where exciting new facts about Pokemon could be discovered at anytime. Professor Oak himself was a celebrity, arguably the brightest mind in Pokemon research. He and his staff were dedicated to unlock the wonderful secrets the world of Pokemon could offer. But they did more than just study Pokemon. They cared for them. The whole estate was a research facility, nursery, wildlife preserve and breeding ground rolled all in one. In short, a safe place for all who stayed.

But not today.

He looked pathetic, pacing up and down the lab in a worried frenzy, with the occasional palm over the face. Running his fingers through his silver hair, he finally slumped back onto his chair in a solemn exhale and eyed the clock on his office desk. Every sound his fingers nervously rapped against the wooden desk only added to his anxiety and the poor man stretched his collar, almost ripping the buttons off his shirt so he could breathe. This went on for some time.

"Where is he?" he asked to no one, rechecking the minute hand that didn't seem to have moved. The tormenting silence of ticking clocks, squeaky shoes on tile and biting nails was finally broken by a sudden wave of laughter climbing up the outside stairs and into the main room of the house. Professor Oak jumped to the familiar voices and raced to meet them.

"There you are!" he exclaimed. "Where have you been, Ash?"

The sudden barrage of questions rattled the two teenagers, as evident by their stiffened bodies and Ash falling to the ground. With some help from Misty he gathered himself off the floor and was about to answer the question but was decisively cut off.

"I've been waiting hours for you. Why didn't you come sooner?"

"I-I—"

"It's not his fault," Misty attentively finished his sentence. "Mrs. Ketchum forgot to tell us you called; she only gave us your message a few minutes ago."

"Uh, what she said," Ash added, dumbly.

"Never mind that," Professor Oak waved. "They took them! They took them all!" He turned and sped toward the lab, with Ash and Misty catching up when they didn't receive an invitation. They entered the laboratory and turned down a smaller hallway leading to a small closet space with rows of shelves on the walls, all empty.

Ash walked in first. "Professor?"

"I don't know how it happened, I really don't. It was all so fast. I was doing some field work with your Tauros, and when I came back, Team Rocket was breaking in and they stole all the Pokemon."

"That's awful," Misty gasped, placing a hand on one of the empty shelves.

"Why didn't you call Officer Jenny?"

"I did," he explained, flopping his hands against his sides. "But the nearest Police Station is in Viridian and they won't be here until tonight. I simply couldn't wait that long."

"And that's when you called us?"

"Yes. I can't go myself; I have to look after the rest of the Pokemon here. I know it's a lot to ask, but could you—"

"Are you kidding?" His interruption was warranted, with his wide smile as justification. "I've made a living taking down Team Rocket. This'll be a piece of cake!"

Misty crossed her arms. "Careful, Ash. Wouldn't want you to get too confident, now would we?"

Professor Oak chuckled. "Well, my boy, will you do an old man this favor?"

Like he even had to ask. Ash's smile persisted, and only briefly stopped when he turned to Misty, who was leaning against the adjacent wall, arms folded, awaiting his verdict. "What do ya say, Misty?"

She nodded, with a smirk complimentary to his.

He pumped his fist in the air. "All right, let's do it."

"Do you know which way they went, Professor?"

"They went out through the skylight," he pointed to the ceiling, causing all three to crane their necks upward to the square shaped window and narrow beam of light angling through. "I think they headed east."

"That's all I needed to know!" Ash grinned confidently, bolting out of the room. Pikachu followed, hopping off his shoulder and ran alongside his trainer.

"Ash, wait," Misty called after them. "What's the plan?"

He peeked back but still continued his stride. "What do you mean?"

Misty sighed, accelerated her steps to catch him and turned him around by the shoulder. "I mean, we just can't run off without some kind of strategy. It's dangerous."

'Danger' was never a word defined in Ash Ketchum's vocabulary. At the very least it was skewed. Since the age of ten, he made it a career of staring peril and danger square in the face, diving heart first without a second thought. Danger wasn't serious, it was exciting. Mystery wasn't a cause for concern, it was an adventure, and time and time again Ash came out the victor. He had an immaculate track record. There was no reason to change now.

"Come on, Misty," he pleaded, teasingly. "What's the fun in that? So we wing it, what's the worse that could happen?"

Misty was at a loss. Heaven forbid she should argue with _that _kind of logic, but she knew better than to talk Ash out of something he had already set his mind to, even if she was along for the ride. Not everyone, however, was willing to follow Ash Ketchum on sheer whim.

"Everything," was the unexpected answer.

A new yet terribly familiar voice claimed the room, and it made Ash, Misty, Pikachu and Professor Oak's head turn in the exact same fashion, toward the new arrival. He leaned in the doorway, brandishing a devilishly handsome grin, and flipped his brown hair back with one hand.

"Gary?"

"The one and only." He entered the house with an immodest shrug, casting a grin Misty's way and a nod Ash's.

Oak smiled. "Grandson. You're here."

Ash's reaction was less than warm, tilting his head, confused. "Gary? Why are you here?"

"That hurts, Ashy-boy," he frowned, feigning offense. The boy leaned back on the backside of the coach, hands to brace him as he crossed his legs cavalierly. "I was invited. The real question is: Why are _you_ here?"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

He lifts his hand in the air, a plastic card trapped between his pointer and middle finger. The guard, a tall man in a navy blue security uniform, takes the card from in between his fingers, inspects it thoroughly, and swipes it through the card reader. The small glowing light right above the door changes from a steady neon red to green, chimes a welcoming note and unlocks automatically. Nodding, the guard returns his identification and opens the door, allowing access.

Ash walks inside, without any type of gratitude and continues down the hallway, with the guard just behind after making sure the door is secured.

"He's in cell 104. Solitary confinement." He waits to be acknowledged, but after a few seconds of nothing but their boots against the floor he continues. "We weren't expecting a visit, Mr. Ketchum; usually we get some sort of advance notice for a visit, especially in these circumstances."

"Does he know what's going on?"

"Uh—he knows he's leaving."

"What?" His voice—sharp, intense and unrelenting is superseded only by grabbing the poor man by the collar and bringing him closer. "Why did you tell him?"

"I—I didn't," he stammers, "He got it out of me. I don't know how he did it. Honest!"

"Never mind." He releases his grip with a solemn sigh, as if already defeated. "It's OK. It's not your fault."

"Do you want to talk to him?"

An important question. But he doesn't answer him, not initially or verbally. A thin silver door is the unsatisfying end to the hallway, with the sign '104 - Solitary Confinement' draped across. And he continues staring, like there's more significance to a measly three inch piece of metal covering a normal-size doorway. The lapse in concentration finally breaks by another low chime intruding the silence, as the guard slips his card in the door and gestures him through, door still unopened. Taking the knob, he turns it slowly, and then forces it ajar.

It's dark in the room, too dark. The guard flicks the lights on, but the single low-voltage bulb from the ceiling is barely enough to shed enough light. He lets his eyes adjust, and they settle on a small damp cell, a single bed in the corner, an open toilet in the other, a small bookcase to the side and a circular table dropped in the middle. On it are two plastic cups, a green tinted bottle of wine, a dusty book and a wooden chess set, perfectly lined, ready for a new game.

There sitting at the circular table, titling backward so the front legs lift off the floor is a man in an orange jump suit, clinging to his body like a lifeline, with an inmate number sewn across his heart. The low-light catches his smile: piercing, playful, and completely terrifying.

"Well, well," he says, finally sitting correctly. "The one and only, Agent Ketchum."

"Gary." The rigidness of his body is matched only by his voice: low, serious and without feeling.

"In the flesh. How are you this fine evening?"

He crosses his arms against his chest, refusing any smidgen of emotion.

A cagey chuckle. "What? It's not a pleasure seeing me again?"

"It's always a pleasure seeing you being bars."

"Nice. Bet you've been saving that one for a while." He pushes his foot against the opposing chair and it slides back. "Sit."

But he refuses again, still rigid, still unrelenting and cold.

"Come on," he gestures. "I rarely get visitors. Humor me."

After a few stubborn seconds he finally acquiesces, and situates himself in the chair opposite to his.

"You look thirsty. May I?" Without acknowledgment he takes the wine bottle, squeaks off the cork, fills the cup halfway and slides it over. "Not the best year I'm afraid. Heaven forbid I should actually taste something drinkable in here, but it'll have to do."

He watches the wine ripple to a still, and then turns his attention to the perfectly lined chess set in front of him.

"Want to play?" Gary starts, catching his line of site.

"Not really."

"Well then, if you didn't come here to play, why are you here?"

Ash keeps silent, sipping his cup, effectively dodging the question. But just because he refuses to answer, doesn't escape the fact that Gary has disarmed him with one simple question. He can't tell him why he's here, but at the same time silence unveils his motives just as much as a confession.

"Where are we going, Ash?"

His eyes rocket up. "H—how did you know?"

"I know you," he smiles, swirling the wine in his hand. "I know you better than anyone. It's simple really. You wouldn't have come here unless you need my help. How goes the war effort?"

Another question correctly answered with silence.

"Thought so. Team Rocket has effectively squashed your precious little League, hasn't it? And now you have nowhere to turn to but," he pauses, gesturing to himself, "yours truly. Am I right?"

Again, he doesn't answer his question, and again, he doesn't really need to. This isn't an interrogation anymore. It's not even an argument. It's a speech.

"You're gonna have to play if you want my help. You do remember how to play?"

Ash's hand hovers over the chessboard, picks up the white pawn fifth from his right and places it at E4, two spaces from its starting position.

Almost immediately, Gary moves his black knight from starting B6 and hops it to C6.

"It must kill you."

"What does?"

"The fact that you're here."

"Not by choice."

"Oh, I know its not," he answers confidently. "This is a much too a logical move for it to be yours. Was it Lance's? Bruno's? Brock's?"

"Brock's," he mumbles. White knight G1 to E2, taking the original place of his pawn. "What do you mean 'too much of a _logical_ move'?"

Gary smirks; still amazed Ash is still as self aware as his naive ten year old counterpart. "You're a doer, Ash. Plain and simple."

"A doer?"

"Yes—a doer." Black pawn from D7 to D5. "You do. You act on impulse and emotion, never considering the consequences or the reactions."

Ash lifts his white pawn at E4 with his thumb and middle finger and takes Gary's black pawn at D5. The move is consolation enough, even though the catch is a measly pawn, and places it at the side of the board.

His eyes raise skeptically. "Really?"

"Yes. It's the reason you're already in attacking position this early in the game."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Ash, Ash. Have I taught you nothing? You never show your hand up front."

"'Cause that just would be _too_ noble, right?"

He shrugs. "Nobility has nothing to do with it." Black knight C6 to B4. "It's strategy."

White pawn from A2 to A3. "I remember—and I have tons of strategy. My strategy is to win."

"Winning is merely the end result. The real test is how to get there."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't make me wrong."

"So, what does that make you?"

"I'm a thinker." He plucks his black knight from B4, moves it two spaces to the left then one space up and places it at D3, almost too close for comfort, right in front of the pawn directly adjacent to Ash's king.

"Big deal. I think plenty." As if illustrating his point, he stops and looks at the board in front of him, considering the move he just did. Gary's knight is dangerously close to his side of the board. The knight is ready to do some damage, poised to take either his bishop or queen. The obvious choice is to save the queen and sacrifice the bishop, the less important of the two. But after considering the entire board, he realizes Gary made a grave mistake, not taking into account his pawn at C2, appropriately at a diagonally connecting square to the interloping knight.

With a deft flick of his wrist, he knocks the imposing knight off the board. It irrelevantly bounces off the table and with a more confident smile than before, places the white pawn in his place.

"Nice try," he beams, quite pleased with himself.

Almost immediately, like no real effort is put into it, Gary slides his queen diagonally from its starting position all the way to A4.

Ash's smile drops to a frown because when he looks down and analyzes the board and all the pieces left, he realizes Gary's queen has a direct diagonal line to his king from the broken hole in his defensive line.

"Check."

As his only measure, he moves his white pawn at B2 one space up to B3, blocking the black queen's path. Just as he does, though, he realizes the move is meaningless as Gary with his queen takes the pawn he just put in its path. This time, there are no options left.

"Check Mate."

"H—how did you do that? How did you beat me?" He attacked more aggressively and had taken two more pieces than he had. He should have won. It shouldn't have been that easy.

"It's quite simple," Gary begins, tapping his temple. "I _think_."

"This isn't a game!" he erupts, knocking his chair back. In one vicious move he sweeps the chess board against the wall, toppling all the wooden pieces to the floor like rain. The round table is irrelevantly cast aside forcing the wine from their cups to spill on the ground, and the high pitched shatter made by the bottle only rings for a moment and is quickly drowned by his voice.

He brings his face to his, holding the inmate by the collar and slamming him into the wall. "Let's get one thing straight! You're leaving because of me! I'm the one you answer to! You're going to do exactly what I say, got it? And if you so much as breathe the wrong way, I'll throw you back in this god forsaken hell hole and you'll rot the next hundred years!"

The agent finally softens as the rage wears off, and he drops him to the ground. "Is that clear?"

He looks him over with active bemusement. His face remains calm, like the surface of an untouched pond, neither exhibiting the facial features of fear, anger, or sorrow. Then, like a small aquatic Pokemon had peaked its head out of that pond, his lips curl upward in a cunning smile, rippling the peace away.

"Crystal."

* * *

><p>He remains quiet during the rest of the trip. After retrieving Gary from Saffron's maximum security prison, minus the ten minutes Gary suggested letting him change to normal civilian clothing so as to not attract attention, he walks him straight to the bullet train station and onto their passenger cart. He only murmurs a few short sentences out of pure necessity, but makes no further interest other than that.<p>

"Wait here," says Ash, before boarding the train. He motions another agent, a tall woman, in her late twenties, fare complexion, light purple hair tied back, and she handcuffs Gary's hands together and throws a brown trench coat over them to conceal the metal.

Ash boards the train, surveying the passenger cart. It's an unspectacular group of people, nearly filing every seat. A single mother in the back tries to appease her crying baby, effectively irking everyone within earshot. A tall man with a mustache buries his head in his newspaper. Across the way, a teenager nods his head to the techno music seeping from his headphones. And an older lady in a white hat and frilly southern dress sits toward the front. Trapped between her fingers is a long cigarette, to which she pretentiously puffs the smoke in the air. One of the staffers of the train conveniently reminds her of their strict no smoking policy, especially since the train's smoke alarms are extremely sensitive, but as soon as he leaves, she opens her silver case and lights up another.

The environment is harmless enough. He beckons the other agent, and she pushes Gary onto the train and down the aisle. The annoying clamors of the passengers seem to make Gary uncomfortable. It's a stark contrast to the peace and quiet of his solitary jail cell. About halfway down the slim walkway, the loudspeaker carries the conductor's voice through the locomotive. He welcomes the new passengers aboard, announces the weather conditions, the next three stops, and promises to alert the cabins if any changes in scheduling or meal times occur. Next are the safety protocols. He gives clear direction to the emergency exits, located on the front and back of each cart. In case of fire, the overhead sprinklers will activate, the train will come to a complete halt and the attendants will guide the passengers single file outside. If weather causes a serious safety issue, they can take an alternate route or halt the train entirely until it passes. If in the most extreme circumstances, the conductor has the ability to seal the doors so nothing is allowed inside, but assures the passengers in all his fifty years of work he has never had to do so.

As soon as the announcements end the train starts to move. The take off is jerkier than usual. The force knocks everyone's head back into their cushions, but the three in the aisle take a slight tumble. Ash manages to angle himself up by the head rests before completely face planting. Gary, however, without the convenience of his hands falls right into the lap of the old lady in the southern dress. The woman cries hysterically, bellowing over dramatic distress and yells for help. The female agent behind quickly grabs him and apologizes before anymore harm is done. The attendances are right at her side with a slew of apologizes and a promise to upgrade her to first class for the inconvenience.

"Where's my cigarette?"

"Madam, there's no smoking on the train."

Ash walks through the automatic door and stays in the threshold until Gary and the female agent passes through. The last thing he hears is the woman shouting obscenities to the staff members, just as the doors slide shut.

They finally end up at their cart, right in the middle of the train.

"I'll take it from here, Janine," he turns to the agent with his palm open.

She balls her fist with the key inside and retracts it to her chest. "With all due respect, sir. I was given orders to see him to the designated prisoner's room. Personally."

"What? On whose authority?"

Her silence gives away the answer, and after realizing who it is, gives a long sigh in annoyance. Gary smiles to himself. After shooting a glare his way, he takes her by the arm so they're out of hearing range.

"Don't talk to him. Don't look at him. He doesn't need a drink of water. He doesn't have a serious medical condition and he's been to the bathroom. I'm the only one allowed through that door. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you talk it will already be too late."

"Understood."

Confidence doesn't ring through her words, or his, but nothing can be done about that now and he watches with rueful eyes as they enter into the small prisoner's hold they designated.

Bursting the door open to the next part of the cart, he stomps over to the table. "What the hell, Brock?"

He looks up from his cup of tea. "May I help you?"

"Don't play dumb with me! You know what I'm talking about! Why did you supersede my authority?"

"I did it because—"

"Do you realize how dangerous that man is?"

The question is almost insulting. As if he doesn't remember the last time they crossed paths with Gary Oak, the kinds of feats he's capable of and the ties that bind him and Ash together are the very ones Gary once shared.

"Of course I know who we're dealing with."

"I should be with him, not Janine!"

"She'll be fine. Koga taught her all he knows. She's practiced martial arts before you could even pick up a Pokeball, and frankly—she's kind of a hard ass."

"That's not the point!" he runs his hands through his hair.

"Then what is the point?"

"She doesn't _know_ him like I do. I'm the best we've got. You're putting the entire mission at risk."

"I didn't make this decision for the mission."

"You didn't?"

"I did it for _your_ sake."

His words smash the argument apart, and the two men continue silent, with the exception of Ash's labored breathing and Brock gently cooling his beverage.

He sips his tea. "Sit down, Ash."

He does.

"This isn't a competency issue. It isn't even a trust issue. I did it because _I_ know you. And I know the only thing keeping you from beating him to a bloody pulp and sending him back to prison is Misty." He pauses for a moment, but provokes only silence on Ash's end instead of the simple acknowledgment he's looking for. "Am I right?"

"Maybe," he says with gritted teeth.

"Like it or not we need him. He has information that will help us end this war. It's imperative we keep things—civil. Stay with me until we reach Lavender. It'll give you some time to cool off, and you can finally buckle down and think of a plan before we intercept that munitions job."

Before a protest can be made, a yellow legal pad and number two pencil slides across the table, and after looking out the window and flipping the pencil between his fingers becomes boring, he turns to the notepad and stares. It's all he can do. That and try to keep the nagging feeling that in an instant, everything could unravel out of control. And that same tiny space separating victory and defeat might also align where his entire grasp of morality might end.

With this and every other concern plaguing his mind, he beings to write.

* * *

><p>Janine obeys everything she's told, she always has. It's an essential part of the ninja philosophy as well as league code. Following orders is of the utmost importance, and today is certainly no exception.<p>

After sitting Gary down in the chair at the far corner of the cabin closest to the window, she loops his handcuffs through the metal bars in the armrest then occupies the sofa in the opposite corner. She doesn't converse or make eye contact, just as she was told, and feels nothing but satisfaction when the first ten minutes are completely silent. That is, before Gary breaks it.

"Wonderful weather, isn't it?" He turns to the window, enjoying the sunbeam hitting his face. "Can't get this good a view back in my cell. Nope. The chain link coverings are distracting. Unattractive too." He tilts his head back at her. Nothing.

"It's the small things I miss," he begins again. "A warm breeze on a summer afternoon, sharing a meal with a friend, kissing a beautiful girl."

Nothing again.

"Don't feel like talking? That's fine, I'm used to it. Solitary confinement and all."

She shifts in her seat.

"Of course, it's so much more fun if you do."

He sighs, sitting back in his chair. "Wonder what you did to get this sorry gig? What happened—piss off the leader, or something?"

She turns away.

"You look like a capable agent. I do remember your gym's winning percentages ranking near the top. Seems like a waste of your talents to keep you on guard duty. Not very, how shall I say it, honorable."

"Says you," she replies, barely interested.

With the subtlest of smiles, he asks, "How much do you know about your new leader anyway?"

"I know enough—and how did you know Ash is our new leader?"

"I didn't—you just told me."

Stifling a growl, she unsheathes a long dagger from her boot and twirls it between her fingers. The dancing metal catches the beams of light through the window, and it winks at Gary, almost pleading with him to take it one step further.

"Ninjas were disciplined back in the day."

"Quiet," she hisses.

"Deadly and mysterious sure, but honorable," he says, over enunciating the last word. "And now you're working for the league. It's quite sad really." He pauses just long enough to notice her hand claw the armrest. "You want the truth? The league is nothing more than a bureaucracy, a bunch of paper pushing megalomaniacs who send their goons to do work they're not willing to do themselves. It's a joke."

He leans forward. "So, Miss Janine—how does it feel to sell yourself out?"

In a blink of an eye, she bolts from the sofa, yanks his hair back and rests the cool blade from her dagger against his jugular.

"And what do you know about honor?" she whispers in his ear. She pulls harder, spurning a weak gasp. "Well?"

"I know enough," he manages. "One more thing. Next time, tie the prisoner in the chair that's bolted to the floor."

Before she can register what he said, the top of his head shoots into her face, whipping her head back. Taking the opportunity, he kicks her to the ground and immediately plunges the back of the chair in her throat. She tries screaming for help, but as the back of the chair pinches her airways shut she cannot manage more than a mousey peep. One hand clamps on the chair, trying to force it off, but he already has the advantage, and he steps on her other hand—the one holding the dagger—so she can't use it. Slowly but surely, the thrashings wane until her eyes close and her body goes limp.

"Poor girl," he smiles, fishing the key from her pocket and unlocking his handcuffs. "I am going to miss her."

He rubs his tender wrists, and after dropping his arms, wiggles his sleeve until a thin half smoked cigarette falls in his palm. He inspects it thoroughly. "One more minute and this thing might've completely died." He brings it to his lips and inhales as delicately as he can, breathing life into the dying cigarette. The tip glows an orange ember and shortens to a nub.

After the nicotine does its thing, he cranes his neck and blows the smoke straight above, watching it rise to the ceiling. Or more accurately, to the smoke detector.

"Now the fun begins."

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

Misty kept her distance, not cautiously, but more as an observer taking mental notes. She remained a few steps behind Ash and Gary, walking side by side, so close together they often bumped elbows. Feeling neither ignored nor excluded, she strolled at her own leisurely pace, leaving the conversation to the boys.

They had so much to catch up on. Ash talked about his latest journey, alongside his newest traveling partners in a part of the world foreign to both his listeners. He talked about his latest Pokemon captures, taking down the local crime syndicate, compared Kanto's Gym Leaders to the rest of the world's and finishing second in the league tournament. What Gary talked about was significantly less exciting, compared to a world traveled Pokemon trainer, but he managed the same level of enthusiasm as Ash. His research in Sinnoh was doing well enough, but the most impressive tidbit was the papers he was publishing on his research.

The conversation eventually jumped back to Pokemon, and Misty could only roll her eyes in disbelief whenever they would fan-boy out the second one of them mentioned a new Pokemon discovery, attack, or battle behavior. Once she swore they were giddy over a newly discovered migration habit of common Spearow. Even Pikachu found such behavior intolerable, and preferred Misty's shoulder to perch on rather than suffering through such minutia.

The trio stopped to a fork in the path. Misty giggled, and hooked her arms around both boys' necks.

"So genius'—left or right?"

Ash remained quiet, hoping Gary would take the reigns. He wasn't sure if they were even on the right path anymore. Truthfully, he almost forgot about the mission they were sent on too. He was just having too much darn fun. Taking the initiative, Gary took a step forward, shielded his eyes as he studied their relationship to the sun, licked his thumb and held it in the air to an oncoming breeze. After a quick tap on his Pokegear wrist watch he pointed down the path to the right.

"You sure?" asked Ash, skeptically.

"Positive."

"And how did all that 'stuff' help you figure that?"

"What stuff?"

"You know," Ash began, mockingly mimicking his earlier movements, and after tapping the imaginary watch on his wrist added, "All that stuff."

To this he merely chuckled and continued down the path he directed. "I'm a genius, Ash. That's why."

Misty leaned on the confused trainer, eyes still glued on Gary walking away, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling contently to himself. "Something wrong?"

"I just don't get how he learned all that 'hocus pocus' junk! He's only a researcher. He doesn't travel. Not nearly as much as I do anyway."

Misty shrugged. "It's easy. Pokegears have GPS on them."

"What? Then what was all that other stuff for?"

"For show," she smiled and patted him on the back.

He crossed his arms. "That's cheating."

"It's not cheating," she consoled playfully, pulling him by the arm. "He's just smart, that's all."

"Oh, and I'm _not_?"

"No, no, you're very smart, Ash," she said, with too happy a tone for his liking. "But there are two types of smart: Book smarts and street smarts."

"What's the difference?"

"Book smart is purely intellectual."

"Meaning?"

"Let me put it to you this way: written any dissertations lately?"

"A disser-what-shun?"

"Exactly," she bluntly answered.

"And street smarts?"

"Street smart is something a person _has_ more than something he can _learn_. It's the ability to read people, and have good instincts, to think of stuff right on the spot. That's the difference between you and Oaks over there."

Her explanation seemed to settle his curiosity for the time being, but as they continued walking, an even greater question competitively seeped its way through the once settled conversation.

"So—which one's better?"

She purposely didn't answer him, and as she jogged away, the split second smile and stifled laughter he caught as she literally left him in the dust was more than enough to get under his skin.

"Come on, Misty," he pleaded, trailing behind her. "Which one's better?"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

Both Ash and Brock jump in their seats, covering their ears to the blaring alarm. Seconds later and the overhead sprinklers activate, instantly soaking their clothes.

Ash rises, hands still smashed against the sides of his head. "Brock!"

"It's the alarm! There must be a fire on the train!"

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

Before any panic can settle in, the odd timing and surrounding circumstances both cause them to register the same horrifying thought at the same time, and they both stumble to the exit. Ash yanks the door open, almost pulling it right off its hinges and hurries down the small hallway, right away noticing the door to the prisoner's cabin is slightly ajar. He picks up his speed.

"He's gone!" He runs to the middle of the room, still processing it's emptiness. "Damn it! He's gone!"

"Janine!" Brock gasps, kneeling immediately to her side. He cradles her head up with his forearm and searches for a pulse.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"Is she—?"

He shakes his head.

He pounds his fist against the wall and darts from the room.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going after Gary!"

"Wait, Ash! You can't do this alone!"

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"We don't have time!" he spins back, with twisting horizontal water drops. "I know how his mind works, Brock. He's a thinker!"

"A what?"

"He's a thinker—a chess player, always three moves ahead! He planned this! He planned the whole thing! But I can beat him at his own game!"

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"How could he plan this?"

Ash angles his head up, the water falling freely on his face. "He activated the fire alarm! It's a distraction! He's trying to throw the entire train into confusion, but there has to be more!" he says to himself. "There has to be an objective!"

A low mechanical grumble is heard. Ash and Brock angle backward from the slight change in inertia, and even the many drops of water bend to the shift in velocity. He can feel the train abate through the walls and through the soles of his feet. After a quick episode of disorientation passes, the collective facts are undeniable.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"We're slowing down. Why are we slowing down?"

"Wait—what did the conductor say during the announcements again?"

Ash shuts his eyes, trying to remember. "He said if there's a fire, the sprinklers would activate and the train would stop." His eyes open widely. "That's it! He can't escape while the train's going 150 miles and hour! Once it stops he can slip out while the passengers evacuate!"

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

Despite Brock's drowned out pleas he leaves Janine in his arms and sprints to the door.

The train is in complete chaos. Panic has stricken every passenger. Some demand information from the staff, who are just as horrified as they are, others protect their loved ones from harm, but almost all cry for help. He tries scanning each face for the mere possibility of glimpsing Gary, but it takes too much time. Every person becomes a forgetful flashing image, and every second he tries to identify each passenger is time ultimately wasted. The sprinklers still rain down on them, like a relentless storm, pelting them with hardened drops of water, and Ash can barely keep his vision as the waters pour over his eyes. The shrieks of the frightened people, the high blast of the alarm and the raspy shush of the running sprinklers are unbearable. They jumble into one giant mess, and Ash's hearing lessons and lessons until it oddly fades in a murky vat of nothing. Pushing through each cart proves nearly impossible. Dozens of bodies jam pack the walkway. They press together like a tapestry of adjoined humans and no matter how hard he twists and turns he cannot break free. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he starts to gain ground by crouching into a ball and forcing his way through.

As he forges through the torrent of bodies, one fact remains clear. The train keeps slowing down. The telephone poles that once passed every second are now passing every two seconds, then every two and half seconds. Time is unmistakably slipping, and with every second that bleeds away, he cannot help but sense the fear slowly grip his body, unraveling like stitches in a rag doll any sense of peace he has left.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

The sight of the engine doors refresh his worn eyes. His head—lifting from its previously crestfallen position—now rises with new found fervor, and he pounds repeatedly on the sliding doors for access.

Locked.

He wields his silver USP match pistol from its holster and points it at the electronic key pad. A single yet exceptionally loud gunshot obliterates the keypad into a hail of tiny pieces, and he digs his fingers in the vertical groove in the doors and pulls as hard as he can. As soon as it's wide enough, he slips inside, and stumbles to his knees.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"Hey! You can't be in here!" the conductor shouts, turning from his controls.

"You can't—stop—the—" he gasps out, each word in large inaudible chunks, and he holds his chest like his lungs will explode right in his ribcage. He slams the gun on the floor in frustration and falls backward, breathing finally coming to a normal rhythm.

"You can't stop the train!" he manages.

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"Who are you? What are you—?"

"There's a prisoner on this train! If it stops he'll escape!"

"Shouldn't he be in a holding cell?"

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"He's loose!"

The conductor steps back, dumbfounded. "Uh—what should I do? What's the situation?"

"It'll be fine," he assures him. "If we don't stop he can't escape. Keep the train at maximum speed. Turn off the sprinklers and the fire alarm; the staffers will tend to the passengers."

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"But sir, Lavender Town is thirty minutes away. We have to stop then."

"Fine. Give me till then to find him. Just keep things going like everything is normal. The fire is a false; you don't have to worry about that. Is there any other way we can keep him on?" He paces back and forth, his fingers harrowing through his hair. "Is there a way you can lock this place down, sealing every external window and door so nothing can get out?"

"Yes, of course."

_Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp! Bwaaarrp!_

"Do it!"

"But—"

"The train will still run, right? Lock this place down and I will find him. I'll post an agent here so he won't get to the controls."

The conductor does as he is told, and after making a quick announcement, and disengages the fire alarm, presses the appropriate command string in his key pad to initiate the lock down.

"Brock!" Ash shouts in his communicator.

_"I'm here."_

"The train will keep going all the way to Lavender, but we only have thirty minutes to find him. We're under lock down. All exits are sealed. I want you to guard the engine room and the rest of us will search the place and find him."

_"Copy that. I'm on my way."_

His orders are executed flawlessly. In a fraction of the time it took him, Brock makes it to the engine room and as soon as they secure it, he signals the two agents they have left to start searching from the back of the train, meeting him as he starts from the front.

When the first fifteen minutes pass, he begins to worry, especially when he meets the other agents empty handed, dead center in the middle of the train. He orders another sweep, then another, each one yielding the same results. Every square inch of the train has been covered. Every cabin, compartment, closet and seat has been checked to redundancy. Every face is marked, every door sealed. He's not on the train. He's just gone.

Ash finds himself in the prisoner's hold, sitting in the exact same seat Gary had been just minutes earlier. The room is cold and damp, with only emptiness as a companion. He had sent the other agents on another meaningless search. He wants to be alone. He can't stand to bear this failure.

Something is wrong. Something doesn't make sense. How could he have escaped? The train never slowed down passed 100 mph. No one can survive a dive off a bullet train at those speeds. They canvassed every inch of that train. Nothing should have slipped pass them, but somehow, miraculously, he's managed to evade them.

He buries his face beneath his hands, wilting to his knees. "This can't be happening. The train is _sealed_. Nothing can get out." He repeats his last sentence, over and over like he's trying to pound the fact in his brain. Around the tenth time saying it, something strange happens. Somewhere, deep within that stubborn brain of his, something clicks. The haze lifts like a fog, leaving vision, clarity—and more importantly—the answer in plain sight.

He stands up and faces the window. "Brock—disable lock down."

_"Copy. It takes a few minutes to cycle through."_

"We don't have a few minutes! He'll escape by then."

_"Wait, what are you talking about? Did you find Gary?"_

"No, but I know where he is."

His reaches behind his back to retrieve his sidearm and fires three gunshots toward the window. The bullets fly with ferocity, blowing three nickel sized holes through the glass. The subsequent cracks fan out like a spider web, and before his patience completely disappears, he takes the chair and hurls it through the window, shattering it entirely.

The wind rush the cabin, taking loose papers in air. It sways his hair left and right and roars from the outside; almost taunting the boy's arrogance into submission, but the newly galvanized agent confidently climbs out of the window, feels the surrounding area for the ladder and pulls himself to the side of the train. Slowly but surely, he makes it to the top and crawls to the middle of the train's roof.

There, a few carts ahead of him, is Gary.

He tries screaming his name, but the rushing wind nullify his words. It's incredible power slam against him like an invisible brick wall, making the simple act of standing an ordeal. His eyes wince, lessening the air's sting of them, and he leans forward to minimize wind resistance. Every muscle, bone and sinew aches with exhaustion, like he's trying to run in 100 time's normal gravity or swim in a pool of drying cement. The train hugs a corner, and the brunt of the force catches him in a totter, almost knocking him off the roof and to his death, but with all his might, retains enough equilibrium to resume the trek.

On the horizon, just a few minutes away, is their destination. Lavender Town stands like a finish line, but this time, crossing it isn't the joyous end to an arduous race more than it is the metaphorical symbol of time running out. As the train begins to slow in approach, it becomes easier and easier to gain ground on him. Sluggish steps turn to quicker paces, and before he knows it, he's barreling toward him, jumping over the small gaps in the cart. Now just one cart ahead of him, he notices Gary lying flat on the roof. Confusion is quickly torn apart by the adrenaline coursing through his body. The train is seconds away from entering a small tunnel. Allowing the wind to take him, he falls backward against the roof's smooth surface, turns his cheek and prays as the tunnel rushes over him, mere inches from his skin.

The train eases into Lavender's station and with a massive wheeze settles behind another idle bullet train. Gary slides down the nose and rolls off the side, to the wooden plank of the boarding area. A few bystanders crowd around him with concern, but after he sees Ash just seconds behind, bursts through the circle of people and runs the opposite direction.

Ash yells at them to clear the way, and he jumps from the roof to the ground. Landing in a somersault, he wields his weapon and immediately sprints down the boarding platform.

Gary is smart. He weaves in and out of the crowds so Ash can't catch a stable glimpse of him, and the melded groups of civilians continue to slow him down, as he bumps into some, and jumps over a crouched few. Against all agent training and common sense he fires a bullet in the air. Everyone in the station retreats to the floor—like tossing a single pebble into water, causing a ripple to radiate to all corners of the pond—so he can continue without obstruction.

Only Gary continues to run. But he's almost on him now, and Ash jumps on a connecting line of long lunch tables. Almost running parallel to him, he watches him stumble on a crack in the wood. Taking advantage, he jumps off the last table and kicks him in the back. He grunts and flies a few feet forward, rolling to the ground.

Rising to his feet, he staggers to Gary laying stomach first on the floor, and after mustering one final ounce of energy, rolls him over and sticks his silver USP in his face. He glares at the fugitive, the pitiful man who dared to escape his custody, but after finding such a calm expression on his face, an odd sense of dissatisfaction robs him of his joy. He doesn't look helpless, terrified nor angry. Of all things, a daft smile of amusement crowns his lips upward, like he's not surprised nor upset about being caught.

He's still in control. He knows what to do. And he's _exactly_ where he wants to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

Ash dumped the stack of dusty logs he had aimlessly gathered from the nearby area, and promptly darted to the middle of the camp to warm himself by the fire. Gary—the fire's creator and tender—poked and prodded the freshly made flames, making sure the teepee like wooden house he made allowed enough ventilation for it to breathe, and tossed in another skinny branch to ensure its vitality.

Night had fallen. So had the fog. Hours before, the group had gotten lost. Ash wanted to break off from the main road, insisting Team Rocket wouldn't have chosen a heavily traveled route to escape. Gary and Misty, of course, sided with the voice of reason, debating their current path was the quickest, and he was idiotic for thinking otherwise. After the many meaningless arguments and wandering the Viridian forest, nature stripped them the option of advancing any further. A thick blanket of fog settled on the entire countryside, and alongside the fast approaching nightfall, made it near impossible for them to travel safely anymore. Both Gary and Misty agreed to stop for the night, and with a begrudgingly submissive Ash Ketchum, setup camp in a small clearing.

The frigid trainer held his hands to the fire, soaking up every ounce of warmth that vacated his body when he was sent to pick up more firewood. He drew the short straw.

He noticed Gary had retrieved a small wooden case from his pack, and set it on a very wide and very flat tree stump. It was a miniature chess set. The case, when turned inside out doubled as the board, and all the tiny pieces dumped in a small pile. One by one, he set them up until, at last, every piece lined perfectly in starting positions.

Ash inched closer. "Whatcha playing?"

"Chess."

"You mean checkers?"

"No. I mean chess."

"What's the difference?"

Gary sighed. He wasn't keen on carrying this conversation at eleven at night. There just wasn't enough minutes in the day.

"Everything," he answered generally. "Chess is checkers on steroids."

"Could you teach me?"

"Sorry." He said it like a parent denying his child a cookie, but after seeing his tone not taken with much appreciation he continued with, "Chess isn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill game, Ash."

"Then what is it?"

"Complicated."

"Tell me."

"Very complicated."

"Don't be a douche. Just go over the basics."

So he did. He showed him the square-checkered board with 64 squares arranged in an eight by eight grid. He told him about all six pieces: The king, queen, rook, knight, bishop and pawn, and outlined how each one moved and attacked. He taught him how to line them up correctly, the ultimate objective, and even threw in a few necessary terms. Ash caught on quick, quicker than Gary excepted. But after a few trial runs, it was obvious he still didn't grasp the entire concept of the game.

"Next time don't attack so early," he said, resetting the pieces after his latest victory. He won in ten moves.

"Why not?"

"This isn't a Pokemon battle, Ash. You can't Fire Blast your way to victory. You need to have a strategy."

"Strategy."

"Yes, chess is all about strategy. Thinking ahead. Outwitting your opponent. It's not about immediate satisfaction."

Ash nodded, covering a yawn. On second thought, maybe it wasn't a good idea to tackle a concept as intricate as chess, especially at this late hour. He rolled to the ground, feeling the damp grass tickle his ears.

Taking the hint, Gary left the board untouched and set up his bed right beside him. He slipped under his sleeping back, folded his hands under his head and nodded pensively at the stars. They shimmered in the night sky, winking back, as if happy to see them, finally uncovered by the dissipating fog.

"Where's Misty?" Ash asked, already in search.

"Red? She turned in a while ago." He flipped his head in her direction, and Ash eventually spotted her a few feet away, on the very edge of their camp, neatly tucked in her sleeping back, with Pikachu curled up at the foot of her bed. He smirked, just long enough for the Gary to notice in the wavering light.

"Speaking of which," he began. "What's going on with you two anyway?"

"Nothing," he responded, innocently.

"Closed the deal yet?"

"Gross."

"Come on, dude. We're not 10 years old anymore."

"I know."

"And I'm sure I'm not the first person who's touched _that_ nerve."

"I know that too." He sighed, ran a hand through his disheveled hair and stole another glance of her. "The thing about us is—we're too different."

"Well, that's obvious."

"I mean—we're two different people living two very different lives."

Now this captured his attention, and for a moment, was caught off guard to how deep the words were, especially considering their source.

He shrugged. "So what? You're a dork. She's a loud mouthed tomboy. Stranger things have happened."

"I'm a trainer. She's a gym leader."

"You're a boy. She's a girl," he revised.

"I'm always on the road. She's home bound," he revised further. "We're never in the same place. We fight. We give each other crap. We're just not right for each other."

"Please, you two are close. Freaky close. She's practically your girl. All you need is matching sweaters and a few make out sessions to make it official." Despite Ash's obvious discomfort, he continued. "And its obvious she feels the same way."

"Yeah right," he scoffed, with a mouthful of sarcasm.

"Trust me. I do this for a living."

"Butt into other people's business?"

"I observe," he replied. "I study, I analyze—I recognize patterns. It doesn't take a genius to see you two have chemistry, and when two people have chemistry there's only one thing needed."

"What?"

He rolled the opposite way, shifted under his covers until he was comfortable enough and nuzzled his pillow.

"Timing—all you need is timing."

Ash was silent the rest of the night. He wasn't tired, despite the majority of his strength taken by the day's journey. Withdrawn, pensive and a head full of junk, he continued to stare into the face of night, reflecting on what was said. Misty was his best friend. She was one of his oldest friends, who's helped him through everything. Maybe Gary was right. Maybe timing was the last ingredient to make their relationship workable. Gradually, before his imagination got the best of him, he crashed landed back to reality. If there was indeed such an appointed time for him and her to be together, and assuming one of them could summon enough courage to break through a sturdy wall of hesitation built over a five year period, who's to say there wasn't another established point in their future where they had to separate? It was bleak, at best. Ash wasn't ready to step over that line just yet. It was a line he couldn't imagine uncrossing while still keeping their friendship intact.

Then, it was morning. He covered his face just before the sun rose to view like a slow cooking egg and went to sleep.

Thinking sure killed that idea.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: Again, I apologize for not updating so diligently. I will tell you, writing that entire train scene was a task beyond belief, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Hopefully, I contrasted Ash and Gary's key personalities well without being too blatant. Also, do I really need the bold letters telling you when a flashback starts and ends? It's a little distracting now that I think about it. The change in tense is distinguishable enough. Should I get rid of it?<strong>

**Thanks in advance for reading and reviewing.**


	3. Proving Grounds

**"Great men do not seek power, they have power thrust upon them."**

* * *

><p><strong>Part III - Proving Grounds<strong>

Her eyes open to her living room back home. As she takes in a deep breath the wonderful aroma of fresh apple pie makes her heart flutter and it almost feels like she's floating as she makes her way to the kitchen, eager to sample a piece.

Her mother stands in the kitchen — so beautiful and angelic. The sunshine glimmers through the window enveloping her in a heavenly light. She's just as warm, sweet and clean as she remembers when she hugs her, taking in the smell of apples, gardening and ladies perfume all wrapped up into one. Smiling, her mother kisses her on the forehead, welcomes her home and tells her she loves her. Her apron is soft like powered sugar, her slippers are fuzzy and her navy hair is held back in its usual fashion. The house is a tad messy and the kitchen is a disaster but it's still home and it's still her favorite place to be.

One blink and it all disappears. It's dark, damp, cold and she coughs weakly as she inhales the musty air hanging in the empty, lonely cell.

Dawn had dreamed of something nice but as the overhead light flutters out its last dying seconds forcing out any warmth and comfort she has left, all she can do is curl into a ball, wrap her arms around her knees and cry.

Footsteps. Many footsteps. She raises her bloodshot eyes just as the door to her cell opens. Two men carry in another. They drag the limp body to the middle of the room and toss it to the ground. The figure lands face first in a shallow puddle and the two men slam the door shut with a resounding leftover echo.

She stays pinned to the wall refusing to move a muscle but after banishing her previously held cowardice — if only for moment — crawls to the unconscious body and rolls it over.

His dark purple hair is barely distinguishable in the near pitch black room but it's a color she unquestionably recognizes and she brushes away the bangs sticking to his sweaty brow. There's only one other person with hair so similar to hers.

"Paul."

* * *

><p>Lavender.<p>

A town not known for its crowded skylines and bustling city traffic like Celadon or Saffron City. During the past few years the town has expanded. The general area is made up of a few up incoming neighborhoods, a promising business district and the Pokémon memorial building. A few tall skyscrapers center at the heart making some semblance of a city while still free from the hustle and bustle of its high speed life.

At Lavender's northern border just at the base of The Rock Tunnel Mountains stands the refurbished Kanto Radio Tower. Like its Johto counterpart the radio tower has six stories and is the premiere landmark for business and commerce, handling everything from basic radio traffic to emergency broadcast systems.

Make no mistake, there's no small town charm here. Lavender, like the rest of the region, yields helplessly to the mercy of the Rockets. The authorities have little presence. The police have been mangled — they have no teeth — and the few precincts and politicians they spare are in their hand, bought and paid for. The Rockets are smart. They don't annihilate local government, they keep them as puppets to control the masses while they run wild, hunting down the last fading remnant of the rebellion. Beneath the facade of authority lie anarchy, oppression and fear.

The small band of agents leave nothing to chance. After apprehending Gary, they immediately make contact with their east coast cohorts and settle in their temporary base of operations. The League had secretly bought out the radio tower's sixth floor with undercover agents posing as technical producers for a local cable network.

The mission had nearly been a failure. Murmurs begin to surface among the team as soon as word spread of what actually transpired on the train, from Gary's near successful escape attempt all the way to Janine's death. Surprisingly, Ash finds himself in the hot seat. His animosity toward Gary is no well kept secret but even though allowing Kanto's most deadliest man tag along on the mission didn't come from him he's still the leader and is still responsible for what happens.

His gun is strewn about on the table, completely stripped and dismantled, with a single round and two stray bullets next to it. He holds one of the bullets at eye level, between his thumb and pointer finger and concentrates. Inverting focus his attention lands on the man across from him.

"So— they don't believe in me. Is that it?"

"That's not what they said," Brock defends.

"Oh, I _know_ what they said," he cuts him off sharply. He tosses up the bullet and watches it tumble, snatching it in mid air before hitting the table. He leans back in his chair.

"They just need to get used to it, that's all. Give it time. We just told them about Lance's death and your promotion a few minutes ago."

How can he forget? He remembers long disappointed faces and a few dispersed grumbles. He may be the leader of the rebellion but only by title and certainly not in the eyes of his subordinates.

"They'll do their job," Brock assures him. "There's no mutiny in the works here."

Ash nods, taking the barrel of the gun and slides it over the handle clicking it secure. "It's not the same, Brock. It was different with Lance. I could see it on their faces."

In his mind's eye he can see him: Lance the Dragon Master. His long flowing cape and spiky red hair — like an uncontrolled flame — is dwarfed only by the intimidating pierce of his stare. He commanded the League with such power and confidence, but it wasn't just his prestige and prowess people gravitated towards. They respected him. They trusted him. Their loyalty was without question. Not a single agent was disobedient, his orders were followed and ideals always upheld.

"You can't compare yourself to him."

"Why? Everyone else does."

"You just need to _prove_ to them you can do this, Ash."

He's right and its painstakingly obvious when he thinks about it. In one second, dozens of images rush behind his eyes, to the many battles Lance had commanded: The mission at Fuchsia where they didn't lose a single man, the skirmish at Cinnabar Island in which he defeated a whole Rocket squadron by himself and his Dragonite to the countless other times before the war where he thwarted Team Rocket's plans. Lance never asked for respect. He earned it.

He shoves the clip in the gun's handle, pulls back the rectangular barrel to load it, switches on the safety and places it neatly on the table. "Is that the city map designs?"

"Yes," he nods, unrolling the map to the edges of the table. Uncapping a fine tip black marker he circles a large rectangular building at the topmost part of the document. "This is us. Approximately two miles south is the police station. The weapon transfer will take place there."

Ash watches as he draws a line from the Radio Tower to the police station, circling it too.

"The Police Station? You sure?"

"Positive. To keep their ammo from drying up they siphon a portion of theirs. They never actually have to manufacture their own weapons, they just drain the authority's supply and pay 'em off to keep them quiet."

"So, we're dealing with Rockets and crooked cops?"

"Afraid so."

"Brilliant," he mutters.

"We'll put up a four-block radius perimeter, boxing them in, then when the Rocket's show up we surprise them and take 'em down."

"Sounds simple enough."

"The station's supply room is located right near the entrance so that's where they're gonna have to load everything, which gives us our advantage."

"How so?"

"The station has a large courtyard in front, it's pretty exposed. We can line up snipers here, here and here," he says, marking X's on the buildings directly south, east and west of the police station. "They'll have a clear shot at the truck they're probably using, take out the tires, then your team can sweep in to take out the rest."

The plan sounds full proof. The enemy will be surrounded, strategically disadvantaged by the snipers and they hold the element of surprise.

"Any problems?"

"Well, we can't just start firing haphazardly at them or we risk hitting the ammunition—"

"... and we all get blown to bits."

"You see the problem," he finishes the thought. "This has to be quick and precise. There's no room for error. One bullet and its over. It's risky, I know, but—"

"No, no" he stops him. "We still have the element of surprise. That'll be enough." He lifts from his chair and steps to the window, surveying the view from his six story perch. The sun had left hours before ushering in the darkness. Coming into view, the moon peeks past the darkened clouds and settles its pale light on the land below. It gives him pause and he doesn't know why.

He exhales shakily. "Have you briefed the rest of the team yet?"

"No. I was waiting on you."

With eyes still on the outside he answers: "Go ahead. I'll be there in a sec."

At once Brock gathers his things and heads to the door but just as he enters the threshold he stops and turns. "Who's going to stay with Gary?"

'Who?' indeed. Earlier they chained him in a small holding room. Every agent had a two hour watch shift with strict orders to keep interaction to a bare minimum. Someone would have to stay and guard him, but the death of Janine is still fresh in his mind and he can't handle more blood on his conscience. Only one option remains.

"He's coming with us."

"What? Ash that's crazy."

"I won't underestimate him, Brock. Not again."

"But—"

"Don't worry. He'll be with me the entire time."

"Ash—"

"This isn't up for debate!" he shouts, effectively killing any burgeoning waywardness. "I'm giving you an order. We take Gary. End of discussion."

The room halts to a quiet still and Brock holds back his tongue from further fueling the fire. Taking in a breath, he walks to the table and picks up Ash's gun, examining it from all sides. "You have no idea what I went through to make you leader, do you? You think the rest of the senior agents were thrilled with the idea of you as their commanding officer? They weren't. In fact, they were adamant."

"They must have gotten over it," he shrugs, back still turned.

"Because of me." He looks down at the gun, the angling light reflecting a metal faced version of himself back at him. "I vouched for you. I told them you could do it. I gave them my word and believe it or not the only reason they let it fly was because I told them I would be there to guide you along the way."

"So I'm a Growlithe on a leash, is that it?"

"No— it's not like that. I believe in you, Ash. I always have. Ever since we were kids traveling the world together to fighting alongside each other in this God-forsaken war. Through battling gym leaders and fighting crime syndicates, I've been there. You don't need to prove anything to me. It's them you need to convince."

The candor in his voice seems to calm things down some and Ash regrets for one second he's forgotten all the loyalty and trust Brock showed him over the years, even if he doesn't deserve it.

"There's something else you should know too, Ash. It's about the team. It's not that they don't believe in you—they don't _trust_ you."

"Why not?"

He sighs, a prelude to his conclusion. "It's Misty— they don't trust you because of what happened."

His head lowers.

"Misty." He doesn't say her name angrily like a shocked reaction nor in crippling sadness with eyes hot with fresh tears, but quietly as if the void she left had suddenly hit him again in all of its weight and ferocity.

"It's not fair, I know. I hate it just as much as you do. You'd think people would understand but I guess in the middle of war when good people are dying left and right, empathy is a lost luxury."

Brock is right. It isn't fair.

"It is what it is, but the question on everyone's mind is: 'When push comes to shove, when its all on the line, will Ash Ketchum be able to put the greater good ahead of his feelings and do what needs to be done?' I hate to think I just lied to them."

This time he does turn. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them— you always do the right thing no matter how hard it might be," Brock concludes, throwing Ash his gun. He catches it in mid air, spins it on his trigger finger all the way to his side and secures it in his holster.

"Don't prove me wrong. Wheels up in twenty."

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years earlier...<strong>

They were getting along. This was strange because Misty and Gary were never considered 'friends' in any sense of the word but when Ash thought about it he couldn't think of a logical reason why they weren't closer.

They certainly had enough in common: a love of Pokémon, a competitive spirit, the same circle of friends and an uncanny knack of causing him grief whenever the opportunity arose; not to mention rivaling egos. This new found rapport had seemingly cropped up out of nowhere and he had to admit was manifesting itself quite nicely. It made traveling smoother. They carried on conversations, helped each other with things, he even made her laugh a few times. One thing was certain though.

He didn't like it. Not one bit.

For some reason they were teaming up on him too. He wanted to sleep in. They scolded him for being lazy. He wanted to stop for a proper breakfast. They said the provisions they packed were sufficient enough. He wanted to lead the group. They joked a blind Majikarp could do a better job. He wanted to battle, just the one to get his blood pumping, a good battle always did. They told him they had a job to do. This went on for the whole day.

He _could_ let it go. He _could_ react in a more mature, proper manner. Unfortunately for Ash sensibleness was never part of his being.

"No you can't."

"Sure I can," Gary replied confidently.

Ash held his ground. "No, not possible. One or two, sure. Maybe a dozen, but not all of them!"

"Leave it alone, Ash," advised Misty. "Maybe he can."

"Do you know anyone who can identify _every_ Pokémon by its cry?"

"Well— no."

"See?"

"He was a published researcher, Ash—"

"_Is_ a published researcher."

"Is a published researcher," she revised. "He's stationed in Sinnoh. He's collaborated with Professor Birch. He's the grandson of Professor Samuel-freaking-Oak for crying out loud. I think that counts for something."

Gary's long list of accolades did not appease him no matter how many there were. Gary was all talk, a man of words not action, full of knowledge and theories nothing more. There was only one way to settle the issue.

"Prove it."

"Sure," Gary said, giving him a one sided smirk like he had anticipated the challenge. The group stopped right in the middle of the dusty path. Gary stepped forward from the two and took in his surroundings. They were pedestrian enough: grass, bushes, thick forests, mountains in the background. Before Ash could ask him what he was doing he shushed him with a single wave, demanding silence.

He frowned. "Can't hear anything. Must not be many Pokémon around here."

"Harder than expected, Gary?" Misty asked, in a playful way that made Ash cringe on the inside.

"No. Not really. We just have to venture into the thicket. We're on a man made path. Pokémon know better to wander around in the open where trainers walk all the time."

"Why don't I just do it?"

Both Gary and Misty shared a look then slowly turned back to Ash with the same mystified expression.

"What?" he asked, popping his shoulders. "I'll be the Pokémon and Gary can guess it."

"You?" Misty reiterated, baffled at the notion. "You're going to do it?"

"Why is that so shocking? I've been around the block a few times."

Gary crossed his arms. "It's your funeral, Ashy-boy. We're all ears."

Ash pondered for a moment. His hands dropped to his sides then propped on his hips, as he paced back and forth rummaging through old memories to conjure up a Pokémon call equal to that big self acclaimed confidence of his. Finally, after a sufficient amount of time had passed he cupped his hands over his mouth, bent his knees and took a deep breath in preparation.

To Ash it was the greatest impression of a Rhydon ever witnessed by mankind. In reality, however, it was just an incoherent grumble, one that can only be correctly described as 'Ash Ketchum doing a Rhydon' and sounded more like the noises he makes just as he's awoken from sleep. He continued his attempt, waving his head back and forth and stomping his feet like a proper Rhydon would do, as if those motions would somehow add something to his dismal performance. The low roar slowly wavered then sputtered into nothing like the dying engine of a car as the identical looks of Gary and Misty's sympathy morphed simultaneously into pity signifying it was time to give up.

He finally did.

Pikachu cocked his head to one side, Gary stifled a much greater laugh and Misty broke the silence.

"What the hell was that?"

"A Rhydon?" Ash answered, not too sure himself.

"Wow, that was, uh, interesting."

"That sucked," Misty said bluntly. "Ash that sounded more like a constipated Wailord than a Rhydon."

"Oh, and I suppose you can do better?"

"Nope," she responded, not even taking his bait.

"Why don't we just head into the forest," Gary suggested, pointing the way. The trio headed off the main path and into the thicket, an action common to three well seasoned travelers.

Gary was right. Not a minute off the main path more Pokémon sounds became distinctive and Ash could only sulk and mutter knowing Gary had bested him again.

"How about that one?" Misty asked, still walking.

The noise in question was a common one, definitely a flying type. A small chirp followed by a gentle cooing.

"Pidgey."

Ash flipped out Dexter of his shirt pocket. The red Pokedex made a high-pitched jingle and displayed a normal picture of the bird Pokémon. As if on cue, and just dramatic enough to add to Gary's bloated ego and to rub Ash's nose in the dirt a bit, a Pidgey flew out of a nearby tree and off into the sky cementing his answer correctly.

Gary smiled, quite proud of himself.

"That's not hard. Pideys are everywhere," he defended. "Pick something you can't find in every region."

The three of them walked a little more before a second qualifying call was heard.

"That one!" Ash shouted immediately.

This call was indeed more complicated than the last. It was an immense roar, deep and overbearing, so powerful they had to cover their ears. Starting off loud, the sound faded away like the Pokémon was aware of their presence, took them as interlopers and decided to vacate the premises.

This one stumped Misty. She prided herself on her knowledge of Pokémon as a Kanto Gym Leader, especially water Pokémon, but since she was nowhere near a body of water, opted not to venture a guess.

Ash turned. "Well?"

"Rock Pokémon for sure," he nodded. "I'd say an Onyx."

"You sure?" Ash held his Pokedex in the air, wagging the concealed answer like bait to a fish. "Could be a Golem or a Steelix. They sound the same."

"Onyx. Count on it."

True to his word, Dexter hummed the affirmative tone and displayed a picture of the rock snake, accompanied by the same call they just heard moments ago. Just to be on the safe side Pikachu even shot a small electric bolt into the brush forcing the Onyx out and it slithered away seeking better privacy.

"Gary:2. Ash: 0," he grinned.

Ash was never one to be deterred by overwhelming odds. He was the comeback kid personified. He forged his own path, through the long grass, crowed trees and thick brush in search of another call. He had to stump Gary, he _had_ to.

Persistence was a time test quality of Ash Ketchum. This quality, though capable to getting himself out of sticky situations, had just enough potential to hurt him. Very little differentiated persistence from stubbornness. Ash walked that line daily. In fact, he played jump rope with it. Every one of his challenges was easily defeated by Gary. But if any sense of failure or compromise entered his mind, it was quickly dismissed as he trudged further down the forest in hopes of wiping that smug Gary Oak smile off his face once and for all. This went on for a while, too long for Misty's liking.

"This isn't funny anymore, Ash," she called from behind.

"It's not supposed to be."

"Fine. This isn't _entertaining_ anymore."

"Me neither."

"Ash!" she shouted, forcing him to stop. "This is sad. I stopped counting score twenty minutes ago. Give it up."

He grimaced. "Just one. All I need is one."

"Look at where we are!" she yelled.

He did. The sunny, wide, clearly defined path had disappeared. Forrest was everywhere. Every sense of direction was gone. The temperature was falling and only a few lingering strips of sunlight were all that was left keeping the dusk at bay. They were lost and it was his entire fault.

"I knew this would happen," Misty growled, covering her forehead with her palm. "This _always_ happens! You lead and we get lost! You trounce off into the forest and we get lost! You take one single, stupid, ignorant, inconsiderate, moronic breath and — guess what — we get lost!"

He didn't respond. He couldn't. Usually Ash could get off the hook by claiming ignorance or at least citing good motives, but not this time, not when she was in the right.

"We're fine," Gary piped in, ignoring the surroundings. "Such drama, this one, isn't she?"

Misty flinched. "Excuse me?"

"Tell you what, Ash. I'll concede if you can identify the next call."

"What?"

Gary crossed his arms and started again, simplifying the request. "If you guess the next call correctly you win. That's all what this has been about, hasn't it?"

He opened his mouth in reply but couldn't form a rebuttal. "I can do it."

Gary nodded, and as soon as their awaiting looks became too irritating to tolerate any further, Misty agreed to the terms as well.

Not even a minute passed before the next call was heard. It was a mechanical grumble interspersed with a wheeze and a spat of high pitched squeaks. The noise was low at first, as if far away, grew in intensity then faded like its originator had zoomed passed them by like a train.

"I've got it!" Ash exclaimed. "A Metagross!"

"Uh— Ash, I don't think that's—"

"I'm sure of it!" he replied, following the noise. "That sounded like a steel-type to me."

"Ash! Wait!" they called after him, trailing in pursuit, with Pikachu darting alongside.

The sound grew as he gained more ground and the only thing that mattered to Ash was the tank-like, quadruped Pokemon fixed in his mind that was without a doubt just a few feet ahead of him. He had to be sure. He had to be right. He had to win.

He broke through the tree line and stumbled into the clearing. He stopped, a single freezing bolt of paralysis jetting down his spine just quick enough for him to realize his egregious mistake. Before he could scream, two sets of hands pulled him back into the brush and out of sight.

"You alright?"

"Shhh," Gary ordered, hushing them quiet.

Misty obeyed and kept low as she possibly could.

Ash tried to move but Gary kept him down as he peeked over the rows of bushes.

A tall cement structure with chain link fencing, security cameras and a running truck being unloaded by a dozen men in charcoal jumpsuits with tiny red 'R's stitched in their shirts filled the clearing.

Ash rubbed his head but kept to the ground. He would've been embarrassed, he would've been humiliated, but any remaining trace of pride aching for attention was swooped away by what lay before them. What had suddenly blotted out any memory of that childish game. What he had gravely mistaken as a Pokémon call. What they had forgotten why they were there in the first place. It was so much worse now.

They didn't just find the rockets. They found their base.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

"Scramble frequency seven. Ok. Check in, people."

_"Sniper one, in position."_

_"Sniper two, standing by."_

_"Sniper three, waiting on you, sir."_

"Do we have eyes, Braviary Squad?"

_"Roger. All clear up here."_

"How's the view?"

_"High. We'll know when they're coming."_

Ash lowers his walkie, reattaching it to his belt. He keeps silent, staring at the four small pixilated monitors in front of him, each a live feed from the city street cameras they hacked into all at different vantage points. Three of his agents are snipers, positioned on the buildings directly east, west and south of the police station. The last group is the Braviary Squad, two agents perched on the roof of the highest skyscraper in the area giving them maximum visual coverage. Across the street from the police station, facing it's open concrete courtyard is an unmarked white van bearing four other agents, Gary, Brock and him inside. Each sniper is in position, every agent is fully armed, awaiting his command, and Gary is secured at the farthest corner of the van. Heavy metal cylinders cover from his wrist up to the middle of his forearm and are magnetically mounted to the chassis of the van pinning him to the wall.

Ash views each monitor individually then looks at a nearby digital clock— _10:55pm_

Everything is going to plan but Ash knows this doesn't mean a thing. This is a fragile steadiness. Peace about to break is not peace at all, it's chaos anticipated. Nothing about the apparent calm of the mission is putting his mind at ease. They know the target. They know the time frame. They even know the enemy's plan but it's still not enough. One mistake, one wrong move can put the whole mission in jeopardy, but the newly appointed leader of the rebellion refuses to entertain on such dread. He can't fail, not this time. He won't let it.

"How's it look?" comes Brock's voice cutting through his turbulent thoughts.

"All quiet down here. Too quiet, actually."

"Show hasn't started yet." He leans forward and puts his forearm just above the highest screen. "When it does, we'll be ready for them."

Ash's eyes dart to each monitor, asks each squad to check in one more time and checks the clock again.

"Nervous."

"Excuse me?"

"You're nervous," Brock says again. "I can always tell when you're nervous."

"Well— aren't you?"

"Nah," he answers confidently, shaking his head. "We have you, Ash. I'd take you with a little nerve over a confident agent any day."

He turns back to the monitors but not after a smile. "Thanks."

"I can't even remember the last mission we were on together," Brock starts again, taking the seat next to Ash's.

"We were on the same mission a few days ago. The one where we stole the data."

"Well, yeah, technically," he agrees in part. "But it's been a while since we've been in the trenches together. The past three missions I've only been the director or support. I'm rarely in the field anymore."

His last few words unearth an old memory and he can't help but smile and laugh to himself.

Brock shares his smile. "What? What did I say?"

"Nothing. It's just— there was a time when all we did was fight alongside each other."

The floodgates open and suddenly a foaming sea of memories poor into their minds of all the journeys the two shared together, to the many travels across strange foreign regions, the happy faces of each new friend, the exciting Pokemon they captured and the bravery they summoned to fight the enemies along the way. In this time of long ago stood an inseparable group of kids on an unstoppable quest for friendship, skill and adventure. There was never a reason for fear

"Wow. That feels like a whole lifetime ago."

"Remember, Ash, when we ran the Pokemon marathon on the Laramie Ranch?"

"Course I do. I won the race. Riding a Ponyta while it's evolving isn't something you forget. How about when we filled in for the Golden Rod Radio Drama Show?"

"Prince Goldenrod and his companions. Still don't know why I was the Friar Tuck character."

Ash laughs. "They kept calling me back for an encore performance. Remember what Team Rocket did?"

"Something stupid probably. All I remember was those ridiculous costumes." They both cringe at the mention.

"Remember when we were captured by Team Magma?"

"Un-fun times," he groans.

"We made it out alright. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to Lance. That wasn't even the worst one. How about Cyrus? That guy was a nut job."

"I don't even remember his plans. Something about creating a new world in his image."

"'Cause there's something so terribly wrong with this one?"

"I guess," Brock chuckles. "We beat him though. Every time."

"Our record wasn't that good. If I recall correctly Team Plasma did, for a time, catch Mesprit, Azelf and Uxie."

"That was Hunter J."

"No I'm pretty sure it was Team Plasma."

"It was Jay. Wanna bet?"

The rest of the agents in earshot although hearing their conversation do not bother to listen or perk up their heads. Ash and Brock have a history, a history none of them are apart of and cannot grasp the bonds they share. Far away in the deepest corner of the van, a third party is eavesdropping on their conversation and has been the entire time.

The rules don't apply to him. He's the only one who does understand. Not only is he familiar with the faces they describe or the places they tour, he can vividly recall every barrage of memories they recount because he was there right alongside them. He gets every inside joke: From May's brash adventurous spirit to the parade of boys swooning for Dawn's attention. This treasure trove of information, certainly a cause of envy for anyone, doesn't make him happy or nostalgic like it does Ash and Brock. In fact, it makes him the opposite: isolated, lonely and sad.

Mistakes are haunting. Only after the fact, in the face of the unknown, when time can judge the course taken is a decision labeled an error or a success, not before. Some claim life is a series of trail and error and mistakes are the way to gain experience, affording the opportunity to grow and learn.

Total crap.

Gary knows exactly what he was doing when he joined Team Rocket. He knows what he had to give up. He knows what he was gaining. Trail and error is pedestrian, unimaginative and uninspiring; like a lost child groping in the darkness. He's too clever to claim ignorance. He's prudent enough to work out the exact consequences of his actions and just because he's a prisoner listening to the happy tales of his once former friends doesn't mean his life is a complete disaster.

For once in Gary Oak's existence he considers the possibility he made a mistake.

"Come on— Vileplume? Fever? Salveyo weed? Ringing any bells?"

Brock furrows his brow. "I remember getting sick a lot but I don't remember that."

"No. No. You weren't sick. You were the one who nursed us back to health."

"Us?"

"Me and Tracey."

"I never traveled with Tracey."

"Oh, that's right. So it must have been me and him that were sick. That means the one who took care of us was—" His sentence sputters in a realization and in one heartbreaking moment they both register the cause of the discrepancy in their memories and who actually nursed those two boys back to health a long time ago, far away in the Orange Archipelago.

He's smacked back to reality. In a cold silence Ash lowers his head and turns back to the monitors like the last few minutes never happened. An awkward Brock shares his silence, hesitant to disrupt the frailty in the air.

"I'm sorry," he finally manages. "We'll get her back. I promise."

Even a vague allusion of Misty is enough to break Ash Ketchum. Even though Brock's promise is sincere it will take more than a mere string of good will to get her back. Ash isn't a deep person, nor an emotional one. He's always been able to remove himself from sentiment when it gets in the way of his goals, to rise above the distractions and look to the bottom line. He does it when he travels. He does it when he battles. He does it when he fights, and if this is going to work he _must_ do it now.

Proving to do so is an entirely different story. He has never experienced loss like this, not the kind that slowly slips away as he's consciously aware, but the kind that is mercilessly ripped away with no warning or solace, leaving nothing but a shell of emptiness behind. This time he's bereaved in the deepest part of his soul, tearing into his very core. With each passing day it becomes harder and harder to pretend everything is fine, when creating another facade is required to cover his original one, hiding a man steadily losing strength. The void isn't filled. He aches for her. It actually hurts physically when she's not here. It's the worst kind of pain.

_"We have movement,"_ comes a voice suffixed by static.

Immediately, Ash and Brock whip their heads to the monitors.

"Report."

_"Black M35 2 1/2 ton cargo truck with a cover, heading west on 23rd street. ETA— 20 seconds."_

"Is that it?"

_"Nothing else in the area, sir."_

"Keep your eyes open. We don't want to be blindsided."

_"On it."_

"Snipers, ready your weapons. I want a mark on everything that comes out of that truck."

_"Roger."_

Through the screen, they can see the aforementioned truck drive into the east parking lot, slowly weave its way on the pavement and park right in front of the entryway of the building, but does nothing more. Nobody comes out, nobody comes in or exits from the building. A minute passes, then a few more.

Ash opens his palms, scanning each monitor in disbelief. Two minutes of checking and rechecking buttons and gadgets finally make him gasp: "What the hell?"

Brock frowns. "Something's not right. We're missing something."

"Braviary Squad, report."

_"N—nothing, sir,"_ they respond hesitantly. _"Nothing else is here. Everything's quiet. It's just sitting there."_

He growls and slams the communicator on the table. "They know. I don't know how but they know we're here."

"Let's not jump to conclusions. These aren't the same rockets we know. Let's just see what happens."

A tiny movement catches his eye and Ash vaults out of his chair and points at one of the monitors.

"What?" Brock asks, trying to follow his line of sight.

"There." His finger lands on the concrete, more specifically at the man holes. "That's it."

"The sewers? What about them?"

"That's how there going to do it. And that means we're screwed."

"What? How?"

In the same unusual second the questions are asked, the four man-covers next to the truck slide off and four smoke grenades are simultaneously thrown to the surface. Slowly, the entire courtyard fills with smoke, blocking any surveillance by them or line of sight by the snipers.

"Damn, it!" Ash yells, gritting his teeth. "We have to go in."

"Agreed. We've lost our element of surprise. What do we do?"

He turns to the other agents in the van. "The rockets are underground. Double back and enter the sewer system at 24th and B Street. There's an access point you can enter into." At once the four agents file out of the van to carry out his orders. He turns to Brock. "Our snipers are blind with those gas grenades. We have to go in there and disable them, then they'll have an open shot."

"What about the truck?"

"It's a decoy. They're taking all the ammo underground with them. The other team will trap them from behind. I'll call in the Braviary Squad for backup. Our priority is the smoke grenades. Go! Go! Go!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years ago...<strong>

"What do we do?"

"Run?"

"We're not running, Ash!"

"Shh. Quiet."

"Sorry. Anyone have an idea? Anyone?"

"This isn't good. We're way in over our heads here."

"There was only suppose to be like three or four rockets, right? Not a freaking battalion."

"I can't remember. Professor Oak made it seem like it was just a handful of rockets."

"He never specified. He should have."

"Maybe only a handful actually robbed the lab and this is their base, ever think about that?"

"Fine. You don't have to yell."

"I'm not yelling! We just need to figure out what we're gonna do!"

"Enough," Gary ordered, hushing them quiet. Silently as possible, they peaked out over the small bushes and scanned the area. Gary took a mental count and they sunk back into hiding. "I see at least twenty outside. Twelve are unloading the van, one is in the truck, four are guarding the door and two are keeping watch. That doesn't include all the ones inside."

"We're way outnumbered. I didn't even bring an entire compliment of Pokemon with me."

"You didn't?"

"Did you?" Misty glowered, offended at the insinuation.

Ash's eyes fell to the floor. "Well, no."

"Enough. Who do you have, Misty?"

"Staryu, Gyarados and Lanturn."

"Lanturn?" Ash turned. "When did you capture a Lanturn?"

"Few months ago."

"Ash. Bigger fish," Gary pleaded.

"Sorry."

He sighed and continued. "Who do you have?"

"Buizel, Infernape and Pikachu, of course."

The electric rodent smiled. "Pika."

Gary ran his hand over the three spheres latched to his belt. "I have Blastoise, Umbreon and Magmar. We don't have a flying Pokemon with us so we can't call for help." He tapped his Pokegear and brought it to his ear. "No signal around here either. Must be blocking it somehow."

"Wonderful," Misty replied through gritted teeth. "We can't take that many by ourselves. It only takes one to radio the alarm. Then we're dead."

Ash looked again with Pikachu nudging for a peak behind his back. "We should wait. Let the crowd die down a bit."

"What do you mean?"

"Once they unload the truck most of the rockets will leave."

"We still have the barb wire fence to worry about."

"One step at a time. Just hold on."

Sure to his word he was right. As soon as the semi-truck was unloaded it headed back up the road and the carriers filed back into the main entrance. The two rockets keeping watch returned to their original duties and disappeared behind the perimeter of the building on with their normal rounds. Only the original four standing at the entrance of the fence were left.

They had to hand it to Ash, four was more preferable than taking on twenty. Misty smiled and knocked him on the shoulder.

"What do we do about the security cameras?"

"We'll need a distraction. Who has the fastest Pokemon?"

"Unless we're by a body of water, not mine."

"Umbreon's pretty fast. I think Pikachu's faster though."

They looked down at the tiny mouse Pokemon, ears perked up at the very mention of his name. "What do you say, bud? Want to lead some rockets on a wild goose chase?"

The electric Pokemon gave a cheeky smile and replied with an affirmative 'Pikachu.'

"Thanks, buddy," Ash smiled, scratching him behind the ears. "Pikachu leads the rockets off and we sneak inside. Everyone got it?"

The trio exchanged silent looks then crouched behind the tree line again.

Ash's plan sounded good in theory but had trouble getting off the ground. Pikachu tried his best to irritate the guards: zipping in front of them, walking right into plain view of the cameras, even shooting off a electric attack to grab their attention, but all the rockets did was briefly acknowledge the existence of a rodent in the area and tossed a rock at him to scare him away. Pikachu scurried back to the bushes and cooed an apology.

"Shoot. That didn't work."

"New plan," Gary began. "Someone needs to scout the base, get the lay of the land. Maybe there's a back door or maintenance hatch somewhere."

"Just like the movies. I'm sure they'll have a welcome sign too."

"Shaddup, Ash. Scout the area and Misty and I will stay here."

"Why me?"

Gary shrugged. "Because I said so, that's why."

It was happening again. He was being singled out— _again_. He wasn't sure if Gary was doing this on purpose. All things aside he didn't care if he was or not, all that mattered was it was happening and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't let it go.

"Or you could go," he countered.

"Ash. Go," he said again.

His face soured. "Give me one good reason why."

"Why? Because you've been acting like a petulant five year old the whole day and it's really starting to get under my skin. I don't know what the hell is going on with you but you need to take a break and cool down."

A time out— that's basically what he was getting, and even though he couldn't offer any evidence to the contrary he continued to argue his point. "This is my mission. I'm in charge here."

"Mission? What mission? We're not undercover."

"Well, whatever this is I'm still in charge."

"Not anymore."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Quiet!" Misty screamed as softly as she could, pulling them back to a crouched position. She peaked over the bushes once more to make sure their presence still went unnoticed. "I'll go."

"But Misty—"

"Geez," she sighed exasperatedly. "Someone's gonna get hurt with you two are swinging those things around and something tells me you need some privacy to work out this little spat. I'll be back in five; ten minutes tops."

"Misty—"

"Talk," she ordered. With that she disappeared, back into the forest with Pikachu following. The very fact Pikachu chose to go with her rather than stay with his master was a clear indication even a Pokemon could tell there was huge problem at hand. They both knew it too. It didn't take long, however, for Ash and Gary to continue the argument.

"You shouldn't be here," Ash scowled.

"I shouldn't be here? I was invited. This is my Grandfather's Pokemon we're trying to get back."

"I can do this without you."

"Clearly. You've needed my help day one of this ridiculous outing."

"I've done it before."

"I'm not leaving."

"You're messing everything up! This isn't how it's suppose to be!"

"And how is it 'suppose' to be, Ash?"

"It was suppose to be me and her! That's it! _Me_ and _her_! If Brock wants to tag along, that's fine. If Max and May want to come, that's fine. I'll even call Dawn in Sinnoh and she can come. But not you! Not you! You're messing everything up!"

Silence.

Gary sighed. How could he have been so stupid? So blind?

He was throwing off the balance; but it wasn't merely a matter of symmetry or numbers. Ash traveled in threes, fives, even a foursome at times. Gary was something that all of Ash's traveling companions never were. He was a _threat_. It was so ridiculously simple he doubted Ash's thick brain could comprehend the real reason why he was mad at him. Clearly he didn't.

It was never a matter of skill, reputation or competence. It wasn't even about their childhood rivalry.

This was about _her_.

It was best to start slow with Ash, like explaining something to a child. "I'm not taking her away."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't have a thing for her. She's decent in a battle, sure, but to tell you the truth I find her a little annoying. She's tall, loudmouthed and frankly a little too scrawny for my taste. There I said it. Now you can stop."

The younger trainer shook his head back to reality like he was just slugged in the face. "I-I wasn't— I don't—"

He bridged his hand between them. "Stop. Don't even."

"This isn't about Misty!" he shot back, knocking his hand away.

"Seriously? Of course it is. The competition. The game. The brooding 'tude."

"It's not what you think!"

"She'll always be with you! _Always_!"

"Stop it!"

"You won, Ash," he bowed irreverently. "You won again and this time I wasn't even in the game. Like her or hate her. Tell her or don't. I don't care. Just pick a side and be done with it so you can stay focused and we don't all get killed. Got it?"

His tirade was as welcoming as a brick. Never has anyone ever talked so blatantly to Ash Ketchum before, but this wasn't the time for tact nor reservations. It was time to take the kid gloves off and tell it like it was. Ash needed to grow up and a heavy dose of his own stupidity might just be the wake up call he needed to be slapped into maturity. As Gary looked into his eyes though, churning and turning the words he had just heard, trying to make light of it all, any sense of accomplishment quickly vanished from his being. There was no grin, smile or confident nod.

"You're an idiot," he whispered.

"What? Why?" he asked, genuinely.

Slowly, he raised his arms and put them behind his head. "Because you've been yelling this entire time."

He didn't get it at first but when he turned he did. Surrounding them were those same Rockets who had been just a few yards away guarding the entrancement to the base, with four nasty-looking Mightyenas salivating from the mouth, eager for a bite. He looked to Gary arms raised and grudgingly followed suit.

Gary was right. He was an idiot.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten years later...<strong>

Smoke.

It fills his entire vision, shrouding everything in a ghostly haze. His lungs tighten, struggling for air. Reaching for his belt, he pulls out his breathing mask. He secures it firmly against his skin, strapping the band around his head, his mouth and nose covered by the plastic apparatus. A thin hose runs from the mask to the miniature filter and he hooks it to his side.

He walks cautiously through the smog. War is all around him, pressing against every milometer of his body but he cannot see it. Bullets fire to his left. Screams and wails sound to the right. It's all happening mere inches away, yet he finds himself alone. Half seen silhouettes appear and reappear just outside the far reaches of his vision and he can't tell if they're alive, dying or both.

A swift blinding pain and he falls to the concrete floor. He rolls to a crouched position to see a darkened man etched out in the gas, with a full mask latched on his face, eyes hidden beneath the glass. The rocket upholsters his glock and shoves it squarely in his face. Instinctively, he slaps the barrel to the left, causing the bullet to fire off target. Still with his left hand on the gun, he strikes the rocket in the gut and rakes his fist across the face. As the rocket's grip loosens on the gun, he kicks him away sending him back into the smoke with a bullet following.

A grenade explodes causing him to flinch, and he ducks to a whizzing bullet that nearly hit him. He makes his way west, following the image in his mind, to where the truck is. Another man in a mask passes his vision. Before the rocket can react, he grabs the back of his head, smashes it against his knee, spins and round house kicks him unconscious.

Two more appear from the depths of the smoke. The first tackles him to the ground. Ash grapples for control but the rocket keeps a tight grip on his arms and locks him from behind. The second hits him on the face then kicks him in the gut. The pain is excruciating but he's powerless to stop it. Then as if the man suddenly vanished, the pain is gone. Opening his eyes, he finds the second rocket is nowhere to be seen. Taking the opportunity he snaps his head back, breaking the nose of the rocket restraining him. The man grunts and releases him, but before Ash can scramble for a weapon or defend himself the rocket is silenced by two gunshots to the chest and falls out of his vision, back into the nothingness.

Advancing footsteps cause him to swing around, as three shadowy rockets barrel down toward him. Ash takes his fighting stance, but before they reach him, all three slow to a halt and drop dead right at his feet, all with a single bullet hole piercing right through their heads. Ash whips around. He keeps turning. What is happening?

"You're welcome," says a muddled voice behind him.

He turns.

Out of the smoke comes a familiar body, a sight he can recognize anywhere, with a breathing mask attached and a glock in hand. The figured smiles under the glass, unhinges the empty clip from the butt of the gun and shoves another round in the handle.

"What are you doing here?" he shouts above the gunfire.

"Saving your life!" is the response.

"I don't need your help, Gary!"

"The hell you don't!" he counters back, shooting into the smoke. "You've always needed my help, Ash!"

Not a second after he utters those words, he points his gun and fires toward him. Ash recoils but after feeling nothing he slowly opens his eyes and turns to see two rockets dead behind him.

He grins. "See?"

"How did you get out?! Why are you helping me?"

"Why?" Gary repeats. He turns to his left and shoots a body emerging from the smoke. "Because of you!"

A set of hands grabs Gary from behind, but he quickly elbows the interloper in the side, flips the rocket on his back and fills his chest with lead.

"You just had to do it, didn't you?"

"Do what?"

"Reminisce!" he snarls. Another poor rocket finds himself in his way. He blocks the first set of punches Gary throws, but the last kick catches him on the back of the leg, forcing him to his knees. His eyes raise just long enough to see the end of Gary's gun whip him across the cheek and falls to the ground.

"You had to reminisce about the good ol' days!"

They find themselves back to back with a rocket apiece to play with. Ash ducks a wide hook from his rocket and trips him with a sweep of his leg. The rocket, however, recovers nicely and somersaults to a crouch. He blocks Ash's downward hammer and strikes his chin. Ash stumbles backward, wipes the blood from his mouth and presses forward. He catches the rocket's next cross and uses his opposing forearm to smash the elbow inward, breaking his arm. The rocket yelps in agony and is only conscious long enough to witness Ash's last blow, an uppercut below the chin sending him back into the gathering smoke.

Gary aims his gun at his foe's head. He pulls the trigger.

Click, click, click, echoes the depleted gun and he angrily throws it aside. The rocket chuckles and advances, jabbing at him with his left hand. Gary manages to bob and weave well enough to avoid them, but he neglects to cover up and the rocket connects a mean right hook to his temple, sending him to the floor. The rocket slams him on the ground again and tosses him aside. Gary sighs heatedly into the pavement and rolls away before he's grabbed again. He shouts ferociously and tackles him, striking him across his face until the rocket's body goes limp.

Ash helps him up.

"It was Jay," he grunts, gaining his breath.

"What?"

"Brock was right. It was Jay," he repeats. "She stole the lake guardians not Team Plasma."

"She was working for them the entire time. I'm still right."

"Technicality," he waves.

A single gunshot and Gary tumbles to the floor. He cries out, clutching his leg as the cloth around it becomes saturated with the blood gushing from his wound. He winces and lurches on the floor, cursing aloud. Immediately, Ash is at his side pressing his hands against his thigh to stop the bleeding.

"Damn it!" Gary shouts.

"Hold still. You're gonna be okay."

"No—he won't."

The new voice comes from the smoke, this one untarnished and free from the fighting in the air as if the battle had stopped just for a single moment. Then comes the owner. A thin figure ordained in the shadows emerges into plain view. A tendril of smoke dissipates around the sleek jet-black army jumpsuit from the heels all the way up the slightly unzipped collar around the neck. One flick of the wrist and the breathing mask is cast aside revealing the wearer's identity. Two long orange bangs descend pass both cheeks, the rest he can only imagine is held up. She twirls her dual 92G Elite Berettas around both fingers and attaches them to her sides, giving him her best smile and the greenest set of eyes.

It's a face it hurts to recognize.

He finally stands. There she is—the source of his anguish for the last nine months. The one who has decimated the rebellion and torments the lives of every citizen in the region. His best friend, the love of his life, Kanto's most wanted and the new leader of Team Rocket.

"Misty."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: Well now, updating his story in just under a year's time? That's gotta be some sort of record. Well, if there are any of you out there who still read this, I thank you kindly for your patience.<strong>

**By the way, I'm not sorry for leaving this on a huge cliffhanger. It's evil but I love it. I still plan to finish this story all the way through. I've got it all planned out, it'll just take a while. Thanks for reading and always thank you for your feedback.**


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